Man in Uniform
by BelstaffJumper
Summary: Sherlock's libido is re-awakened when he listens to John enjoying some private time with company. He also finds out there's truth in what they say about men in uniform. Johnlock, obviously! Rated M.
1. Listening in, or a glimpse

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. If I did there would be more episodes than the meager 3 per season...

This story will be a Johnlock one, so if you're into it, stay with me. I intend to pace myself and upload one chapter a night. Last time I posted a story, I was excited because it was my first one and I tried to do it all at once. I ended up finishing it at 5 am... Mainly because I still do one last editing. This has not been brit-picked, but I tried my best. Feel free to point out any slips and please review, I'd like to know what you think, how I did. In this first chapter I tried to stay clean. ;)

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**1\. Listening in, or a glimpse**

Sherlock returned from Germany a day earlier than planned. He could have been home even earlier, if it wasn't for the lack of available seats. _Humph, that turned out to be a mere level 4 at best. Not even worth the trip_. From the street, he could see a faint light in the flat, but as it was 11:30 at night he did try to enter quietly. Mrs. Hudson had been very angry last time he didn't. It was unpleasant enough to make Sherlock almost seem considerate. Self preservation, really.

As he closed the front door with care, first he faintly detected a foreign scent in the hallway, then he heard a thump from above. He was alarmed for John's safety for a brief second, but right then he heard one, two, no, several muffled moans. A woman's moans. _Of course_, he closed his eyes, sighing. _He didn't expect me back until tomorrow night. _He had recognised the scent, of course. Perfume, aggressively feminine. The one John has named in the past as the one women's perfume that drove him crazy. _Clever woman._

Slowly and quietly, he removed his shoes, picked up his small suitcase and went upstairs, avoiding the creaky spots on the staircase. As soon as he walked in, he noticed John had cleaned up the flat.

He intended to go straight to his bedroom; the last thing he wanted was to see either one of them, should they decide to come downstairs for food or drink (or should she decide to leave in the middle of the night - one could always hope). He would just go into his mind palace and block all the external sounds.

John's bedroom was just above the sitting room and, unfortunately, the sounds were slightly louder here. _They must have just started. The thump was probably one of his shoes coming off as he climbed into bed..._ She was quite vocal, in a non-stop moan-gasp-whimper string of sounds. It caught his attention that he couldn't hear John. He thought about it for a couple of seconds, then he realised, _Of course! Foreplay. He's a caring person, therefore, he's also a caring lover. Manual or oral stimulation, possibly both_.

At that thought, his plans to go to his room and block the sounds to ignore this event were momentarily forgotten. This was quite interesting and challenging, to identify and catalog what has happening without the visual input. He wouldn't be sleeping anyway and it would also keep him from getting bored. He knew this was probably 'not good', but John would never know. And this type of knowledge could become useful on a case someday.

Sherlock lowered himself onto his chair. _Oral stimulation..._ In a flash, he remembered an episode that had happened a short while ago. During a case, after much complaint, they had stopped at a cafe' so John could have a quick sandwich. It was some monstrous concoction with frilly greens, some meat or another, and a thick orange-ish sauce. Sherlock had been engrossed in his phone - making good use of the time wasted, when he saw John's hand had the sauce dribbling over the crook of his thumb and trickling down his wrist. John quickly ran his tongue from the bottom up to avoid getting his shirt's cuff dirty. A sight that had disconcerted Sherlock, even though he wasn't sure why at that time. He could recall it now, that tongue. Skilful, like its owner. John had a very mobile mouth, always very expressive. _His lips..._

Now and then she'd stop, only to re-start, over and over again. Finally, there was a longer pause. John gave a muffled gasp. _She's returning the favour_. He wasn't as vocal, his sounds were more like breathy exhales, quite difficult to hear. But those few sounds he emitted were enough to make Sherlock feel warm and slightly embarrassed. He felt flushed as he tried to picture John lying on his back, eyes closed, panting... _What would it be like to be this close, to breathe in his smell? _Sherlock always enjoyed coming into the flat, that's when he noticed it clearly: that John-scent, so unique. It was subtle and what at first started as an unconscious perception, over time it became the smell of home to him. Then John said something upstairs. There was a longer pause, accompanied by the faint sound of a drawer opening.

_Ah, ever the doctor._ He felt once more the satisfaction of being able to tell what was happening by sound alone. Then, a longer moan, coupled with a masculine one. Sherlock felt a jolt in his groin at that last sound. It made him want to hear more. Now there was a faint and muffled syncopated creaking of the mattress. She started being vocal again, then, after a while, there was a pause. And the cycle started again. And again. And again. _Mmm, she must be on top_, he reasoned.

After a while, there was a quiet conversation. Then, judging by the creaking of the floorboards, a couple of steps. He frowned. They seemed to be moving towards the wall towards the street, between the windows. _Why-_

Her giggle was interrupted by a small yelp and now the syncopated sound was coming from the wall directly behind his chair. _Oh..._ A vivid image danced in front of his eyes and left him breathing heavily. Slouching on the seat he threw his head back in the direction of the sounds, as if trying to actually see their cause.

This was the first time Sherlock had a glimpse of John's intimate life. John had had quite a number of girlfriends ever since they started sharing a flat (and many more before that, he had already surmised). But usually they'd go to the woman's place. John only brought a girlfriend home when it was a social visit or when he was sure of privacy. Well, lately, not even for social visits. He said Sherlock always ended up being unpleasant, or that he created embarrassment, ultimately pushing them apart. It already happened just in brief interactions, no need to add this loss of privacy to the mix, in his words.

So, due to sheer numbers, it made sense that he would be quite an experienced and inventive lover. But listening to it now left Sherlock surprised, fascinated, embarrassed, excited, dizzy. In his mind's eye he could see everything that was happening upstairs. He was getting rough now, and her moans followed his rhythm. Then he paused again. Soon the noises re-started, but slower, and she was quiet for now, her moans dying inside John's mouth. The pace increased, and they broke the kiss, her whimpering renewed. He was getting rough again. Sherlock felt John's rhythm in his own chest, his heart pounding with each thump on the wall. It was hard to associate the mild mannered man he knew as his flatmate with this rough lover upstairs. Just like the soldier and the doctor. Sherlock always felt the soldier to be a thrilling and exciting sight. Unfortunately – to his mind - it was a rare event, only making an appearance when they were in danger. Not as common as he would like.

They stayed at the wall longer than Sherlock would have expected. Surely, John's bad shoulder couldn't support the strain. _So she is petite and fairly light. No surprises there._

A few words exchanged and they moved again. They walked away from the wall and there was the creak of the mattress. But only one person climbed into bed. After a small and slightly longer moan, the rhythm picked up again. But something had changed. She wasn't moaning anymore. There were muffled sounds, and, after straining to hear, he understood. _Ah yes, that._ With the different angle, this was a different kind of pleasure. She was breathing frantically, and John was picking up the pace again. As a vivid image appeared in his eyes, his mind went on a wild spin. With his eyes closed, he immersed himself in the image. Sherlock was reminded of that physical knowledge he had once buried inside his mind a long time ago. He ached with want and need. He craved the feeling of rough hands grasping his hips tightly, bruising his skin. Craved the feel of hips and thighs crashing against his, burning thrusts inside him, the mixture of pleasure and pain, sweat and heat, from desert and sun, John in fatigues and boots, _Oh John!_

They had quieted again, and John spoke gently. Then a creak signalled he had climbed into bed with her, and both scooted over to the middle of the mattress. With another twitch in his groin, Sherlock just listened with closed eyes and parted lips. She was still quiet, only gasping for air in a frantic and erratic way. _John really knows what he's doing. _ Sherlock tried to re-capture the fantasy again, the exotic breath surrounding John the soldier, the alluring image of him in uniform...

They stopped again. There was a quiet exchange, some laughter. _He's really enjoying himself. And she is beyond happy with him._

Some more creaking upstairs. _They're switching positions again._ Longer moan on her part. Now the bed definitely joined in the chorus of their lovemaking and her rhythmic moaning re-started. _Quite annoying really. Not surprising though, John has to be a good lover, given his experience... A good lover, attentive, caring, ensuring his partner's pleasure._

Now there was a distinctive surge of strength. _Ah, he must be on top now._ Sherlock felt sweaty at this thought. The anticipation left his body tingling and the hairs on his arms standing up. The pace was becoming frantic, but then, another stop. John moaned quietly into her mouth. Sherlock was disappointed at the interruption, but felt a shock wave course through his body when he heard John's moan. After a while he started again. Sherlock felt John's pace thudding in his chest again, breathing faster, anticipating the release... Another pause! This was frustrating to Sherlock, why couldn't he just get on with it, he was impatient to hear-

He started again. She was whispering something now. The bed's thumps became distinctively louder now. _He will not stop anymore._ At times, she let out a louder cry, he was getting rough again. John, at the very edge, more animal than man now. The instinct overtaking the brain, primal, feral, basic. He was actually grunting, joining in with her sounds. Sherlock felt his head spin when he heard John expressing his pleasure. The headboard started hitting the wall, _he must be getting close, he's ready_. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling like his entire body was on fire, pulsing and physically shaking with the rhythm of those hips crashing down, down, him, John, muscles, tanned skin, stubble, heat... John blurted out a prolonged and hushed moan with the release of the breath he must have been holding. Then he went on in waves, following each crest of pleasure with the rise and fall of his groans. At these sounds, Sherlock came in his pants, panting, jerking with the spasms, clasping a hand over his mouth to keep quiet.

He was lost for a moment, in a blaze of blinding heat, when his mind stopped its usual constant whirl. He tried to get more air back to his brain so he could think again. _Not enough, not enough. Need control back. Brain. Back. _He tried to control his breathing, realising now that it sounded quite loud. What if they heard him? He could not get caught. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find the Union Jack pillow on his lap. Alarmed, he jerked it away to check for stains but, thankfully, the pillow was dry. He wasn't aware of having grabbed the pillow sometime earlier to get the necessary friction. He checked his watch, surprised at how long it had lasted. No doubt she would not leave now. _Too late in the evening, she's spending the night at his side._

_So this is why women like him so much._

...

Flushed and embarrassed, Sherlock went to his room, removed his soiled trousers and pants, wiping himself off with some tissues. Putting his gown on tightly he retreated into his mind to analyse this last experience. His own reaction surprised him. He knew John had become a close and dear friend, no matter how unlikely this sounded. But such a physical and visceral experience was unprecedented, alien to him. Baffling.

Lately he had started thinking more and more about how John had revealed himself to be a bigger puzzle than he had originally thought. There were many facets to him, and to know them and to combine all into one person seemed incongruous. He was kind and gentle most of the times, violent and lethal when in danger, cold and practical under pressure, warm with friends, and... also a good and attentive lover, he knew now. Passionate, strong, confident, powerful... This lover was new knowledge to him. He had guessed this would be the case, but now he knew.

Beneath the unassuming huggable non-threatening look, there was the male confidence of someone that knew what he wanted. Yet, clearly, he gave as much back. Somehow the female populace recognised it in him. A nice guy, gentle, kind and good in bed. And not bad looking either.

His own reaction to this invasion of privacy embarrassed him, but he couldn't deny he had enjoyed it. He hadn't realised he had been rubbing against the pillow (_worse, 'John's pillow'_). Worse still, he had wanted to be there, with him and no woman between them. But that was not possible. John liked women, not men.

The best thing for him to do would be to wait for them to sleep, then get out of the flat before they woke up and stay away until he was certain she had gone home.

John would be furious if he knew he had listened in. Appalled if he knew what Sherlock's reaction had been. A fair bit more than not good.

...

They woke up, teased each other, had a companionable hour lazing around, tracing each other's bodies and chatting. Then they showered together, got dressed and John made breakfast for her. She left very late in the morning. Sherlock was waiting outside in an alley further down across the street when he saw them kissing at the door, saying goodbye. She had straight and long black hair, brown eyes, a warm skin tone and a palpable sensuality that spoke of tropical origin. They kissed lazily, and Sherlock saw John's tongue on its way inside her mouth. He felt a twinge in his stomach at the sight.

He waited another half hour before walking back into the flat, carrying his case to keep up appearances. Even John couldn't miss this detail.

'Sherlock? I wasn't expecting you until later on tonight! I take it you solved it?'

He proceeded to explain the boring details of the too easy case, adding that he just didn't return earlier because there had been no seats available on the previous day. John looked relaxed and happy, no frown lines today. Under the collar of his shirt, there was a bruise visible at the base of his neck. Sherlock didn't want to know, but John volunteered the information he had gone on a date the previous night, omitting the sleep over. He knew that John knew Sherlock had already 'seen' the evidences in the flat, so if John wasn't going to mention it, nor would he.

'Sherlock, you look a little... cast down. Are you feeling okay? Do you think you're coming up with a cold?'

_Caring John._


	2. The dating time frame

This chapter is really short, so I'll do two tonight. Enjoy!

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**2\. The dating time frame**

John was feeling a bit worried, as if walking on eggshells lately. Sherlock seemed a little withdrawn, upset, even. Not being his usual self for most part. But whenever he asked, the answer was always the same, 'I'm fine, John.'

On the other hand, dating Marisa had been going well, and he had passed the 6 week mark. Sherlock had not done anything too serious that sabotaged his dates lately, which was unusual (part of the 'not being himself' that John noticed). Plus the last month's crop of cases had been quick ones, not the kind that dragged on for several days or weeks, which allowed for decent dating in between. She was from Brazil, nice, pretty, and they got along well, which was a huge plus in his book. He really liked her, she was smart and had an easy going personality, always upbeat and happy. Maybe this could be the long term relationship that he had been craving for.

Yet... Something was off. He couldn't put his finger on what that could be.

...

One morning, John was getting ready to leave for work and Sherlock had been working on his microscope in the kitchen. John saw a bruised cut on Sherlock's cheekbone and did a double take. 'Sherlock, when did you get tha-' he was asking as he stepped back quickly to take a closer look, when Sherlock heard him and turned to answer.

Their lips and noses collided briefly, in the confusion of Sherlock's change of direction. It was only a second, where two sets of lips slid past each other, moving in opposite directions. That took both of them by surprise. They immediately pulled apart, avoiding each other's eyes, apologising simultaneously.

'I was interrogating a suspect yesterday while you were at work and he wasn't cooperative,' Sherlock answered a little too quickly.

'You went off on your own? Why didn't you wait for me to go with you?'

'Couldn't be helped. He was about to leave town.'

'Any other injuries?'

'No, just this punch.'

'Did you loose consciousness?'

'I'm fine, John,' he cleared his throat, then lowered his voice. 'No need to fret. You'll be late for work.'

'Well, yes, you're right. I should get going.' He hesitated, but decided it was best to go.

...

If it wasn't for years of training himself on controlling his breathing when in danger, he would've been panting at the 'kiss'. Strangely, this applied here, 'control when in danger'. Sherlock had felt a sudden heat, and he fervently hoped he hadn't blushed. John had looked away, so he may not have noticed. Mercifully, John had brushed it aside, as if it hadn't happened. John was embarrassed, but knowing it had been an accident, quickly dismissed it, asking about his well being instead.

_John the doctor, always._

But, truth be told, he had enjoyed the feeling of John's lips on his. That split second was treasured and stored away in his mind, to be revisited and relished from now on. _Relished?_ It felt good. His lips were soft, warm and wet, tasting of toothpaste... very sensual. Now he had a glimpse of what it would feel like if John ever... _No, _he sighed. _That's all I'll ever have._

...

John had been startled by the 'almost kiss'. That kind of accidental non-kiss had happened to him before, but usually with women. This time, he had felt a jolt, as if an electric current had run through his entire body. There was warmth stirring inside him now that he had put some respectful distance (several blocks and a couple of tube stations) between both of them. Sherlock's lips were warm, velvety, and felt fuller than they looked. It wasn't unpleasant. Nice, even. But nothing more. Just an accident. Sherlock was as embarrassed as he was, which was fine. _His embarrassment will pass and be forgotten before the end of the day. Or sooner. Only I'll remember it._

It was pointless to deny it. He had enjoyed it.


	3. Musings

Chapters 2 and 3 are setting up for what's to come... Hope you will stick to to my story. I mentioned it before somewhere, I don't buy Sherlock being asexual, so this is my take on it. Enjoy!

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**3\. Musings**

It was Sunday and John was relaxed. They had finished a case and his surgery closed on weekends. Mercifully, Sherlock's noise the previous night had been actual violin playing, so it wasn't as bad and he had a good night of sleep for a change. He showered and, after some debating, decided it was best to shave, just in case. You never knew when a potential client might show up, better to look respectable. Or when Lestrade might call compelling Sherlock to drag him out of the flat without much notice. He put on an old pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt, leaving it untucked, and went downstairs, barefoot. He knew it was a bit risky to be barefoot around the flat (who knows what Sherlock might have thrown around – a tissue sample, a knife, chemicals), but he had learned to always scan the floors as he walked. He went straight to the kitchen to get some breakfast. It was a coffee kind of day today, being dark and rainy. He had a small start upon seeing Sherlock at the table, looking into his microscope.

'Oh, good morning, Sherlock.' he said, receiving only a small grunt in reply.

He tried not to slow down his pace, but he glanced at Sherlock's neck as he walked by. Busying himself with the coffeemaker he thought about Sherlock peering into the microscope. He thought the thin neck coming out of his clothes (or gown), framed by his black hair looked quite elegant. He liked his profile; the shapely nose, the mouth looking smaller from the side, the light of the microscope shining into his eyes, making them bluer than ever. Sherlock had a bit of a receding chin, which was compensated by the fact that it was also long. At moments like these, he looked peaceful - or at least, most of the times he did. His face was at rest, just concentrating on what he was seeing, absorbed in the task.

'Black with two sugars,' said the familiar voice, without moving away from the microscope.

_Once in a while, 'please' would be nice_, John thought, resigned.

...

Sherlock glanced as John busied himself with the coffee. He had been a puzzle from the start. Who in their right mind would've trusted Sherlock right away, from the beginning? So much so as to kill to protect him when even the police had started to suspect him? How had this happened in less than 24 hours? What was it that John saw in him - aside his brilliant mind?

_Or, more startling, what did I see in him? What made me choose him as a flatmate from the start? A man coming from war, accustomed to violence and danger might've understood my passion towards solving mysteries._ But that had not been all. To this day he still didn't know what had possessed him to pick John Watson. He was just glad he did.

Most people loathed, disliked, hated or feared him. Or, at the very least, were uncomfortable around him. Not John. Oh, he would get mad at him sometimes, for trivial things on their day to day lives (body parts, destruction of property, invasion of privacy, lack of empathy, etc). But he had never acted like the others. He cared for him, treated his injuries, looked out for him. John always tried to watch his back, always tried to make sure he ate, stayed hydrated, got enough rest. And he praised Sherlock constantly.

He had quickly chosen John on a whim to circumvent Mycroft from hand-picking his next flatmate. His brother had established this condition for Sherlock to have his own flat long ago, after the drug years. He would have to have a flatmate, so there'd always be someone watching over him and, preferably, reporting to Mycroft. Someone to make sure he didn't go back to drugs. A nanny-bodyguard-nurse. He always knew when someone worked for his brother. And if they didn't work for him in the beginning, Sherlock made sure to send them running the moment he knew Mycroft had bought them. To his brother's annoyance, this time Sherlock came up with someone who refused the bribe. He hadn't expected any flatmate to last, but he could at the very least stall (and annoy) Mycroft until the next one, and the next one, and so on. But John had not only refused the bribe, he had stayed.

Yet it wasn't only on a whim. John had... something about him, something that gave Sherlock the push to give him the address. All that he was presented itself very clearly within a minute. But only the external, superficial things. When he first allowed himself a sideways glance, he noticed the hair colour and the limp. He had always liked blond hair. It always drew his eyes, like a magnet. Then, when John offered his phone, it gave him a chance to look into his eyes and read him. He saw mistrust; John clearly didn't want a flatmate and was there only because he didn't want to be rude to Stamford. He noticed the eyes, blue, very dark and inscrutable that day. _Hm, a mystery... this might be interesting._ So he showed off a bit with what he gathered from his first glance and the phone, to intrigue John into coming to see the flat. He even turned on his charm, winking mischievously when giving him the address and his name as his parting words.

Their first case together was a whirlwind of fun. John had made it a memorable one. As they got to know each other, he discovered that there was more beneath the surface to John Watson. And that 'more' was something he had yet to define.

At first, he thought _John is always - justifiably so - in awe of me. He worships my mind, always telling me how brilliant I am. The first person to actually recognise my skills. He's almost like a puppy dog paying attention to its master. _It was satisfying to finally have his brilliant mind dully acknowledged. It was his right to be revered for his superior intellect.

But over time he realised that John was not simply a puppy dog. He had slowly wormed himself into a very unique position, one that only one person had ever come close to in the past. He had become his friend. Not a light word in itself, Sherlock didn't have friends. But then he became more than that. He became Sherlock's best friend. He would have scoffed at such a ridiculous idea years ago. Now he found out that he liked having and being someone else's best friend.

He had experienced his own shifts as time passed. It started from day one, but he hadn't noticed until recently. One of the things he thought endearing about John was how expressive his face was. For the most part, it was very easy to read his emotions. His brow and lips were always very mobile, making his micro expressions more like a giant advert. Except, there were occasions when Sherlock detected buried feelings, thoughts, all undefined and elusive. Sherlock could always read others, but now and then John would still puzzle him. Maybe it was part of the military training, but on occasion John could be very inscrutable. He enjoyed John's laughter, and one of Sherlock's greatest pleasures was when he was the one who had made his friend laugh. It made him happy to know John was happy with him, proud of him, on his side, by his side. He enjoyed looking into those blue eyes and see all that flowed from within, towards him.

Usually physical contact did not appeal to him. His sexual history had been enough to satisfy his quest for knowledge and to write it off from his life. Despite the fleetingly satisfying physical sensations of any sexual act, no one had been interesting enough to make him want a relationship. He didn't have a problem with sex, he had a problem with people. He was as much a virgin as Mycroft was fat. But those were the things that the brothers used to spite each other. Because it worked.

_Except... No._ No one had ever been as close to him as John. For the first time in his life, he finally understood the appeal of a relationship with someone else. He had been happy alone. Now he was happy not having to be alone anymore.

He enjoyed watching how John moved and oftentimes had tried to imagine the body under those unflattering clothes he wore. He liked when John wore his terrycloth gown around the flat after showering, with his hair still wet. It felt intimate, as if he were comfortable around Sherlock. A couple of weeks ago, John was relaxed, sitting down on his chair with a mug of tea and the paper, letting his hair dry a bit. Sherlock had been lounging on the sofa, when he did a subtle double take, seeing his friend in profile. Like most males, John sat with his legs wide apart when relaxed. The gown opened enough to show the inside of his left thigh, quite high up. Also, with his body curved in a relaxed position, it hung loose, showing more of his torso. Nothing more, but the idea of seeing a little further than allowed stirred his senses. _Tantalising. Is he wearing anything underneath the gown?_

And last week's indiscretion of listening in. That had sparked his own sexuality to re-awaken, after so many years. The most skin John ever showed was when he wore (loose) t-shirts with (loose) pyjama bottoms to sleep or a (loose) t-shirt and (very long) shorts to work out.

Yet, he still hadn't seen his scar. John was always too self conscious to walk around shirtless.

Following his internal train of thought, without looking away from the microscope, he asked, 'John, can I see your scar?'


	4. The scar

**4\. The scar**

John had been sipping his coffee, reading, when Sherlock's abrupt question made him jump in his chair and turn. 'What?'

With a huff - he hated repeating himself, he added, 'We've lived together for almost two years and in all this time I have never seen your scar. You are very self conscious of it and never walk around shirtless. Why?'

That was a loaded question, with no simple answer. He paused and considered it, staring into space. Long enough that Sherlock looked at him, still waiting for an answer.

John looked back at him, 'I don't know, Sherl-'

'No, you do know. You just don't want to talk about it. I don't understand why. Do you think of yourself as disfigured? Most men have no problem walking around shirtless in their own homes, but you don't. At least, not in front of me.'

_Hell, I'd be too self conscious with less clothes in front of him_, John thought. 'Sometimes, when it's too hot, I do sleep shirtless,' he replied defensively.

'Yes, but as soon as you leave your room you cover yourself up.' He got up and came into the room, sitting across from John. He crossed his legs and placed his elbows on the armrests, fingers interlaced on his lap.

'I had never noticed it.'

Sherlock just tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, doubting that last statement. John sighed. 'No, you're right. I have noticed because it is a very conscious decision. I just don't have a concrete explanation for it. I just don't feel comfortable being shirtless. And it's not just with you. It's been like this with my past girlfriends too.'

Sherlock winced internally at that. It pained him to think all those women had been much closer to John than him. Too many of them.

'And yet you have allowed them to see it. Why can't I?'

'Are you asking me to take my shirt off now?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

Sherlock paused and considered. _Why indeed?_ 'You are my only friend. I should know all there is to know about you. Clearly your scar and the cause of it is quite central in defining who you are. Yet this is unknown to me.'

John understood, but still felt uncomfortable with the idea. To purposely show his torso always put him on the spot. Under such unwavering and unnerving scrutiny it would be much worse. This was Sherlock, after all.

'Sherlock, it's been very awkward for me to strip off my shirt ever since I got back from Afghanistan. Somehow that makes me feel exposed, more so than being naked. To do it right now would feel no different, still very uncomfortable.'

'Then why not get it over with and just allow me to see it? If you did it for your girlfriends, many of whom are no longer in your life, why not for me?'

John remained silent, looking back into Sherlock's intense gaze.

'Sherlock, I'm sorry. I can't. Maybe I will in the future, but not at this very second.'

Sherlock was disappointed. He brought his fingertips together in front of his lips and looked down, thinking. Then he tried to convey his thoughts more clearly.

'John. I don't understand. You obviously consider me your friend. Is that correct?'

'Yes, of course.'

'You have shown you trust me, even with your life, just as I trust you with mine. Don't you?'

'Yes. Well, most of the time. Except when you are experimenting on me.' he paused. 'Is that what this is about? Are you sure this isn't you wanting to see the damage that a high caliber bullet can do?'

'While I admit that this in itself is interesting, it's not my reason for it. Were my interest merely academic I could easily find enough material online. Not to mention I have already seen quite a few in my line of work. No. I'm interested in what you've been through, from the moment you got shot, to the hospital, the convalescence, the rehab. This is what brought you here. This is a huge part of who you are. I just want to know that part of your life too. That is the reason. I would like you to trust me.'

It made sense, he considered Sherlock his best friend, that alone would have merited trust. Yet, somehow, he felt really uncomfortable with the idea. 'I'm sorry Sherlock. It's just too awkward and embarrassing. I can't just do it like this, at the drop of a hat.' Sherlock wrinkled his nose, he hated being denied his wishes. Seeing this, John added, 'Look, I trust you and someday I'll show you, just not like this, okay?'

'Like what then?'

'We'll know when the time comes.'

'John.'

'No.'

'John.'

'No, Sherlock. It's final. Not now.'

...

John thought about it afterwards. Sherlock kept insisting, and the more he insisted, the worse John felt about just taking his shirt off like that. He left the flat to get away and thought about why he felt uncomfortable with the idea. To allow Sherlock a view of his scars would make him feel naked. His stare would dissect him and leave him bare, as if his very soul had been stripped. He thought about how he admired Sherlock physically just as well as intellectually. In a way, as embarrassing as it was to admit it, by comparison, he wasn't remotely in the same league and that made him feel inadequate. Also, he remembered their lips brushing, and the alarming response in his body. What if this response were to happen right in front of such observant eyes? His world revolved around this incredible, insufferable, gorgeous, annoying, amazing, self-centred man that was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't know exactly what he felt, but whatever it was, it was there and it wasn't going to disappear, he could feel it.

...

Week 7 never saw week 8.

* * *

Note: John is wrong to feel inadequate. Sherlock would disagree, as you'll see in the following chapters. In earlier versions of this story, John did relent and show it to Sherlock, but my beta thought it seemed too implausible that he didn't put more resistance if he feels that awkward. So you and Sherlock will have to wait a bit, sorry.

This chapter is ultra short (for me), but I am in a bit of a time crunch tonight. If I can I will post the next one later. If you like this story, I do have another one complete - another Johnlock, what a surprise! It's called The Catalyst. It's much longer too. Thanks for following, favoriting and reviewing! You guys are great!


	5. The push

Note: I made it, this one is also a "short" one. It's just that I edit these to death. Enjoy!

* * *

**5\. The push**

'Sherlock, remember my Army buddy Brian's wedding?'

Sherlock frowned. He didn't, that was quite clear.

'Well, I had planned to go with Marisa and had already bought the train tickets and reserved a room. But since we just broke up, she's not going with me anymore.'

'And?' He looked at John sideways, suspicious. That was good news, though. John wouldn't be out as much, at least for a while.

'Well, if there are no cases, would you like to go? It's a week from now and I'd hate to waste the money. We'd be leaving Friday and coming back on Monday. If there are no cases you'd be complaining about being bored anyway, and you'd be here by yourself. And I'd rather not let a bored Sherlock unsupervised in our flat for four days.'

'No, I don't think so,' he huffed annoyed. 'Being sequestered in a room full of drunken people three nights in a row is not my idea of fun.'

'Oh, come on, Sherlock. There'll be a pool party on Friday afternoon, followed by dinner, then the wedding and reception on Saturday. During the day you can tour around the country, if you don't want to hang out with my friends. The hotel is really close to the beach, it's really nice.'

'No. I don't "tour the country" or sprawl on the beach. I'll be fine staying here, where the crime is, thank you very much.'

'All right. Suit yourself. But the flat better be in one piece when I get back. I mean it, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. As tempting as it was, to see John at a pool, sleep in the same room, be his 'date' for the weekend, he didn't think he could remain unaffected by John's presence. The last indiscretions of his treacherous transport had been alarming and the thought of loosing his self control again was scary, to say the least.

'Ah, a text from Lestrade. See John? My place is here, in London.'

…

John had mixed feelings about going to the wedding. Of course he was excited to see his friends. He hadn't seen most of them ever since he was shot. Yet, it also triggered memories, some quite unpleasant and painful, and that was hanging heavily over him. He still kept in touch via email, but the day he was shot was traumatic for everybody. The casualties... John had been one of the lucky ones.

Truth be told, he was a bit relieved that Sherlock had refused to go with him.

...

He was just having breakfast before heading to the train station when Mycroft arrived.

'John. Sherlock. Good morning.'

'What do you want?' Sherlock spat.

'Manners, Sherlock.'

'Erm, morning Mycroft, would you like some tea?' John asked, about to get up.

'T-'

'No, John. Don't encourage him. He's leaving.' John paused in mid-air, uncertain.

'Sherlock, this is a very serious matter-'

'No, sorry. I can't.'

John decided to sit down, finish his breakfast and stay away from the conversation.

'You have no cases at the moment, I know. I can see the boredom in your eyes.'

'No. That's not why I can't. I can't because I'm going out of town in (looked at his watch) 40 minutes.'

John tried to keep his surprise at bay while staring at his mug, but he involuntarily looked up, his forehead crinkling a bit.

'Oh, are you?' Mycroft said, fake smile showing he didn't believe it.

'Oh yes. John's Army buddy is getting married and we have been invited. It has been planned for ages, we have the train tickets and the hotel reservation. Plus, (Sherlock planted a hand not too gently on John's shoulder as he was drinking his tea, almost causing a spill) John will be too lonely and disappointed if I don't go with him. I promised I would go (he turned away abruptly and John couldn't help looking around with an air of surprise). And if you excuse me, I have to finish packing. Please show yourself out.'

'Sherlock!'

'Sorry. No. See you la-ter!' Sherlock was already in his room, slamming the door.

John didn't know what to do at that point. Mycroft looked furious, despite his composure. John only knew it because he was used to him by now.

'John, would you please give this file to Sherlock on the train?'

'Are you sure, Mycroft? He might toss it out of the window, you know how he gets.'

'He won't. He's stubborn, but still curious. Once he sees it, he'll want to take this case.'

'I...'

'John. This involves National Security. Lives are at stake. Please, would you try to convince him to read this?'

John sighed. 'All right, Mycroft. I'll try, but you know that ultimately, he's the one to decide on reading it.'

'I know. Thanks for the tea offer. John.' With a nod, he turned and left.

John went to knock at Sherlock's room and upon entering was surprised that he was in fact packing. 'I thought you were just saying that to spite him. Are you actually coming?'

'No choice, John. Can't be avoided now. He would know if I stayed home. You do still have the ticket, don't you?' He kept on packing quickly and efficiently. Not much needed for three nights only, this should be fast.

'Yes, both are in the same envelope. I just haven't had the time to try and get a refund. And quite frankly, I forgot about it, with our last couple of cases, work, shopping for clothes, the break-up, trying to get my uniform ready-'

'Uniform?' he paused.

'Yeah, all of us will be in our dress uniforms for the occasion.'

'Should I pack my tuxedo?'

'You have a tuxedo?'

'Obviously!'

'Hm, I'm not sure, I don't know how formal it'll be, I only know what we the fusiliers will be wearing. Bring it, I'll ask Brian once I see him. A jacket for the dinner. Oh, and don't forget, there'll be the pool party, bring-'

'John, I have no intention of going anywhere near a pool.'

'Why not?'

Sherlock looked up. 'John, I might have to go to get away from Mycroft, but that doesn't mean that I have to take part in everything, does it? I'll be at the events that cannot be avoided. The pool party doesn't qualify as unavoidable.'

'Okay. Fine. By the way, Mycroft-'

'No. I'm not taking that folder and I don't want to look into it.'

'He said you'd want to take the case once you saw it. And he did mention National Security.'

'Pft. When doesn't he?' He zipped his suitcase. 'I'm ready, let's go.


	6. John's past in the Army

Note: my gift to you, as a thank you for all the follows, favorites and reviews, is to finish posting this story. So you'll have all of it by tonight or tomorrow. If it takes a while it's because I care about the quality of what I write and edit like a maniac, chapter by chapter. There'll be 16 total in this story. I can't believe you guys stayed with me, the last few chapters feel a bit boring by themselves. So thank you and enjoy the rest of the story. Let me know what you think.

By the way, I have no idea of how this TC thing started, but I was too in love with the idea not to write about it. I like the idea that John is quite 'successful' despite looking so unassuming and harmless.

* * *

**6\. John's past in the Army**

'Who's Gwen?' Sherlock asked, after twenty minutes of silence on the train.

'What?' John looked up from his book.

He huffed, 'Have you gone deaf?'

'How- Sherlock! Have you been reading my emails?'

'Obviously, how else would I know to ask "who's Gwen"?'

'Sherlock! That's personal! Why don't you ask me things directly instead of reading my - personal - emails?'

'You never mentioned her before and your mates talked incessantly about her to you. You never told me about her, so how would I know to ask a direct question without prior knowledge? So I am asking you now, who's Gwen?'

'We served together.' he spat.

'I gathered that much, but I was hoping for a more elaborate answer.'

John sighed. It was best to answer, otherwise Sherlock would barge his friends and get distorted answers anyway.

'She and I had to partner together for quite a few shifts during training. She's incredibly attractive and guys were always hitting on her. But she always refused dating any of them, she wanted to have a clear track, to have a proper career in the Army. Everybody knows that's what she wanted, so I never even tried. She and I got along well and were always friendly to each other. That's all. We never dated.'

'All your mates don't seem to think so.'

'Ah, they're just taking the piss, really. Deep down they know we're just friends.'

Sherlock paused for a minute. Seeing that the conversation was over, John turned back to his book. Then he heard the next question, equally abrupt. 'Why do they call you TC?'

'Oh Dear God.' John banged his head on the back of his chair, looking up and taking a deep breath.

'It's obvious it has nothing to do with your initials, so why TC?'

'It's just a joke, Sherlock. It stuck. That's all.'

'But what does it stand for?'

John sighed. Another 'it's just best to answer that now than him hearing from the guys later on'.

'Look. It started as a joke. They call me Three Continent Watson. When we were stationed in Gibraltar, Germany, and later in Cyprus I ended up dating women from different countries. So, according to them, like "sailors having girlfriends in every port", I had "girlfriends in three continents". They were just taking the piss really. But it stuck.'

After another minute, Sherlock asked 'How many countries?'

John dropped the book. 'That was a long time ago. It doesn't matter.'

'Well, how many?'

He sighed, annoyed. He looked up, visibly counting. 'Nine.'

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

'All right. Germany, Italy, Sweden, Turkey, South Africa, New Zealand, Japan, Argentina, Barbados.'

'That's more than three continents.'

'I know, but when the nickname was coined it was three. Then it had stuck already. They tried to change it, but three was too ingrained by then. Plus, TC sounds better than FC.'

'Why different countries?'

'It just happened that way. I was abroad and met women from different countries.'

'So you prefer foreigners?'

'No, it's not that. I do find the different cultures fascinating, the different accents charming and cute, the exotic looks of each one of them quite attractive. Sometimes it's refreshing to meet people who have no concept of social classes like we do.'

'So this is the matter with the English women?'

'Oh no. It's more a question of chemistry between the person I'm with and I than where she's from.'

'So nine women. In how long?'

John paused. He looked back into his book, embarrassed. 'Eighteen months,' he said quietly.

_Interesting. Why so many? Does he get tired of them that quickly? Or is it just romanticising the exotic, the unusual? Or a voracious sexual appetite? He's still dating foreign women..._

….

Another half hour passed.

'John.'

'Hm?'

'Are you really going to the pool party?'

'Huh? Yees. Why?'

'Your scar.'

'Oh. That.'

'Won't it bother you?'

'I thought about it, once I read the invitation. But then I realised no, it won't bother me.'

'How come? Only a few weeks ago you wouldn't even go shirtless for me.'

'Because in that group we've all been through the same things together. Many of them have their own scars, visible or otherwise. Plus, there's not much privacy in the Army, so you get used to it. I'm used to them.'

'But surely, there'll be other non-military guests in the event.'

'Yes. But we'll be sticking together. Just like when in service. Old habits, I suppose. We huddle for warmth and all.'

Sherlock twitched his lips up. 'In the desert?'

'Hey, it gets cold at night in the desert.'

After a pause, Sherlock asked, 'Will you let me see your scar then?'

John's neck and ear turned a bit red. He sighed, burying his face on his book. 'Since I will be in a pool party I think it's inevitable that you will end up seeing it.'

…..

Sherlock was a bit nervous. One of the reasons he didn't want to come was the thought of being in the same hotel room with John. Last time they did he hadn't been having these 'transport malfunctions'. Would they have to share a bed? He had planned to come with... was it Maria? The one from that night he had returned from Germany. So he must have booked a room for a couple. He would have to be careful. He made sure to pack his dressing gown.

Unable to control his thoughts, he resorted to more desperate measures.

'John.'

'Yes, Sherlock.'

'Do you still have Mycroft's folder?'

John was surprised, but made no comments, merely pulling it out of his luggage's outer pocket. He feared the wrong word might remind Sherlock to be angry with Mycroft again. National Security, lives at stake, after all. He hoped it would be interesting enough, like his brother said.


	7. The scars

Note: I did spend days looking for the ideal location for this story (Google maps, Google images, travel sites, etc), but could not find the right beach. So this town, the hotels, the beach remain as figments of my imagination, unnamed. Maybe they exist in France? I don't know, I didn't think they'd travel that far for a wedding.

Also, I did a lot of research on bullets (dull!), bullet scars (not as bad as I thought) and some medical possibilities (a bit dry), as well as the procedures in bringing injured British soldiers home (I felt a bit guilty that I was researching that to write FF, but I feel the utmost respect for all the brave men and women that serve in any country's army), a bit of anatomy (also dry), so hopefully this is somewhat credible. The injuries I describe are a barely educated guess. I had the perfect opportunity to ask American Army doctors about all this but chickened out. Next time perhaps. I'm sure I made mistakes, but I tried my best. John deserves it.

* * *

**7\. The scars**

When they got to the hotel Sherlock was surprised to see the bedroom had two beds.

'John, you had planned to come here with Maria-'

'Marisa.'

'Yes, and you booked a room with two separate beds?'

'No, of course not. But as soon as you said you were coming I emailed the hotel to change the rooms. I didn't know whether or not they'd have a different room available, but it was worth a shot. Otherwise the guys would really be merciless in their teasing if they knew I had to share a bed with you. Trust me, I love these guys, but their teasing is brutal.'

'Ah. Good thinking,' he said, between relief and disappointment.

'Wow, look at the view, Sherlock.'

'Dull.'

'No, seriously, come here. See? You can see the shore to our right, and see that pool over there on the left? That's where the pool party will be. It's the hotel next door's, their pool is bigger. Our hotel does have a pool, a sauna, and a fitness room, though.'

'Marvellous,' he answered unimpressed.

'Oh come on. I'll certainly try their sauna. That's the one thing I wish I could have in my dream house.'

'Really? Why?'

'It's relaxing, really helps my shoulder and feels good. I do get a bit impatient after a while, but it's still enjoyable. Maybe I can try it tomorrow during the day.' John stepped away from the window and started to unpack his clothes.

_A tantalising thought_, mused Sherlock. He tried to dismiss it. He looked over to his left again. _I can see the entire pool from here. _

**'**Sherlock?'

Sherlock turned away from the window and was surprised to see that John had removed his shirt. He was visibly uncomfortable and a shade of red started to appear on his neck. He still held the shirt in front of him with both hands, squeezing his fingers a little too tightly, shoulders tense.

John looked into his eyes, then looked down at the floor. He knew he was feeling hot and embarrassed, but if he were to go to the pool party, there was no way Sherlock wouldn't see the scars. _Best get this over quickly._ He still couldn't explain, even to himself, why he felt that way. He had almost died from that shot. And in a sense, a big chunk of who he was had died that day. Maybe it had signalled the end of something he enjoyed doing. Maybe it was the loss of his identity when he was sent home. It was worse when some of his past girlfriends thought highly of him or his scars once seeing them. They romanticised it, made a big deal out of it. Some thought he was brave, a hero even. He didn't feel that way. He got shot. He had big ugly scars. End of.

And somehow he also felt sad that Sherlock had to see this. It was already upsetting that Sherlock had heard his nightmares when he had first moved in. As time passed the nightmares had lessened, but now and then he'd still have bad ones, that reduced him to a panicky and sweaty mess. It was embarrassing to show this weak side of himself to Sherlock.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't want to see him looking, it was easier this way. Sherlock kept his distance and didn't move, only his eyes traveled down. He also noticed John had more scars, some quite recent, a by-product of their cases. There was also a purple bruise on his chest, where he had been hit in a fight with a criminal this past week. He felt a pang of regret that, in a way, John's recent scars were because of him.

He took advantage of John's eyes being closed and strayed around quickly, committing what he saw to memory. John's pink nipples stood out once exposed to the air. He only had a little dusting of chest hair, lighter blond and fine, almost invisible. A little bit more between his belly button and his jeans. John's physique wasn't excessively muscular as a bodybuilder's, but there was enough definition to look quite nice, much more so than his clothes suggested, which did not surprise him. He had guessed John would have a nice body, but to to actually see it was rewarding. The work out routine he had developed kept him in good shape. His pecs, arms and shoulders had clear definition and looked solid, wiry. His abs were almost the coveted washboard, and the inguinal ligament drew a line that went beautifully between his obliques and hip bones, down underneath the jeans that hung low on his hips... _Focus! _

The scar was on the left side, slightly below the collarbone, between the shoulder and the neck, a raised line about 4" long, almost horizontal, with the marks of the stitches. Or at least that's what it should have been, except that each line had blended into one another, making it more of a mass of brownish/whitish scar tissue.

'Tell me about it. Where were you, what were you doing, what time of the day did this happen?'

John kept his eyes closed, and his brow was now creased.

'We had received information about a site suspected to be a terrorist cell hide-out. It was early morning when our troops stormed into the building to investigate. As it turned out, it was a trap. They were surrounded and there was an exchange of fire. We were called as backup, but it took us a while to get to them and there were heavy casualties that day. I was part of the support medic team, following at the very back. Soon I was also scrambling for cover. The terrorists had snipers spread out everywhere. I was kneeling behind a wall when the bullet pierced my armoured vest and went through my shoulder blade. I never got to help the first group.' John opened his eyes.

'It's quite massive and impressive. But it seems to be mostly from the surgery afterwards,' he commented, keeping his eyes on the scar, aware of John's open eyes.

'Yes. Usually bullet wounds are surprisingly small. But the bullet pierced the top of my lung and curved inside, which made the exit wound bigger than it would've been, had it gone straight. It always depends on what kind of ammunition they use. The one that hit me was the kind that produces more damage precisely because it doesn't travel straight upon impact. Luckily it missed the subclavian artery and the heart. The cut you see is from the surgery to repair all the damage. I had a collapsed lung and after the surgery they kept a tube inserted here to drain the air and help the lung to expand back to normal. They also had to drain the blood so I had a second tube stuck on me. The bullet broke the scapula on the exit, which required pins and plates. And it damaged the muscles around it.'

'Did they operate on you in Afghanistan? How long was your recovery?' He was carefully watching John's face now, attentive to any signs of distress.

John was now staring into space, remembering, with a troubled look in his eyes. 'The standard procedure is to helicopter the injured to the field hospital at Camp Bastion to stabilise the patients. Then airlift them to the Kandahar Airbase and fly them direct to Birmingham with a medical team on board, keeping the patients stable. I just never expected to be one of them, as illogical as it may sound. I'm glad to have been sedated throughout most of it. The flight to Birmingham alone takes 14 hours. Once back in the UK, I was in the ICU at the Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham for 5 days. By the second week after I woke up they started trying to make me get up and move, but then I got pneumonia. That required 2 weeks of antibiotics to clear. It weakened me and I ended up spending almost 2 months in hospital, followed by a month more in a rehab centre at Headly Court, Surrey. Then I was discharged and came to London, where I continued doing rehab at an outpatient facility and started seeing a therapist. I was living in a bedsit, with no one around, limping between appointments when I met you.' His eyes met Sherlock's, but as soon as the next question came, he looked away again.

'Does it still hurt you?'

'The scars themselves are still tender to the touch. Sometimes it hurts inside, depending on the weather. It also hurts if I get hit on that spot. My lung capacity changed a bit, so it's harder for me to run for extended periods of time. My range of motions was also affected, depending on the task. Anything that involves the pecs shows how much weaker I am on that side. That's why I run and exercise. It's mainly physical therapy to keep the damage under control. Unfortunately it looks bigger than it should because of all the keloids. The back looks worse.'

Sherlock walked around to look at the exit wound. It was indeed, messier than the one in the front. There was no definition between the stitches and cut.

'May I touch it?'

John was surprised and nervous, but nodded while keeping his head facing forward, his ears turning red. Sherlock tried to be as gentle as possible as he touched the many keloids formed. Goose pimples immediately spread throughout John's back, neck and arms. He recoiled involuntarily at the touch. The scar tissue was taut, yet soft.

'When did your limp start?' Sherlock stole a glance over John's entire back, cataloguing the other scars and marks, admiring the muscles. John's skin irradiated warmth and smelled good. His current soap was coconut scented, he could still faintly detect it. His jeans were old, faded, comfortable, and belonged to a heavier version of John. They hung loose and low on his hips.

'Soon after the pneumonia. Once I was able to walk, I found out it hurt and I was limping. Even though I understood it was most likely psychosomatic, it still felt very real, permanent and crippling. I never would have imagined that I'd ever walk without the cane again.'

He continued circling John until they were facing each other again, this time closer. He touched the entry wound scar, moving his fingers over its entire length gently.

John was embarrassed and didn't know where to look, so he just kept his eyes lowered. 'Nowadays, in hindsight, I figure that the long hospitalisation must've given me the sense that I was a broken, damaged man. Day after day, week after week in hospital, it made me feel useless, angry, anxious, guilty, restless. Useless for being crippled, angry that it happened to me, anxious for the future, guilty for surviving and yet not being there, restless because I had no purpose. I knew my military career was over, all that I knew or was, was gone. I would be discharged, then what?'

Sherlock did not want to pull his hand away just yet, but he did. 'Now I understand why this had so much psychological impact on you. I, em - Thank you. For trusting me,' he said awkwardly. He could tell how difficult it had been for John to show himself like this. He was crimson and tense, forehead all wrinkled, slightly hyperventilating, pulse visibly accelerated on his neck, pupils dilated due to stress, knuckles white against the shirt he was holding, as if he could hide himself behind it. Only this kept Sherlock from feeling aroused. He needed to be respectful of the trust given to him. Looking into his eyes he thought, _They look so much darker today, almost navy._

John gave a small smile. He was hiding himself behind the shirt.


	8. The pool party

Quick note: you won't believe how much I fretted over the correct word for swimsuit in British English. Please let me know if I'm too OCD or off target.

* * *

**8\. The pool party**

John came out of the bathroom wearing new clothes: khaki trousers, a short-sleeved shirt. He slipped on a pair of loafers without socks.

'John.'

_Dear God, this might become a very long weekend._ 'Yes Sherlock?'

'It's a pool party.'

'I know.'

'Why are you wearing clothes?'

'Hey, I still need to walk through two hotel lobbies. I'm not doing it semi-naked.'

'But you're not taking a swimming costume with you.'

'Of course I am. I'm already wearing it'

'Oh. Right.'

'Will you go to the dinner tonight? I don't think there'll be serious drinking at the restaurant. We might go to a pub afterwards, but the dinner itself should be just that, and nice.'

'Mmm. All right.'

'You will go?'

'I just said that.'

'Oh. All right then.'

John dug a bottle of sun cream from his case. Sherlock looked sideways as he bent down from the waist. He could see the outline of the bathers now. Odd. Not Speedos, but not the large longish shorts he had expected John to favour. Judging by the shorts he usually wore to exercise, Sherlock had imagined he'd choose something similar. _Strange. Usually body conscious with the rest of the world, he seems very much at ease with his Army buddies._

'Well, see you around 5:30. The dinner is at seven, more casual, no ties required, but we still need to wear jackets.'

Sherlock grunted, sitting at the small desk, eyes not leaving the pages in Mycroft's folder. It was actually an interesting case, he grudgingly conceded, murder within a locked room. But as soon as John left, he went to the window. This was highly unusual: a case always absorbed him, and he couldn't help but to give it his full attention. But right now, John seemed to be his case, and Mycroft's crisis, the intruder.

_Maybe I should have gone._ But being trapped with so many people that he didn't know, being forced to be social and make small talk was his least favourite thing to do. It always left him on edge, impatient, wanting to flee. Even worse, all this would be compounded with sun, water and heat, which did not agree with his constitution (he'd only get sunburned, overheated and his hair, out of control). No. The dinner tonight and wedding tomorrow were already too much for him. He would've liked to see John in the pool though. _Maybe he'll get tanned again this weekend._ His skin was a slightly golden colour when they had met. Even tough it was already quite faded, he could tell John's skin would almost match his hair colour when really tanned. No, darker even. Sherlock had never thought much about tanned skin. In fact, he dismissed it as useless vanity most of the time. But this just added to the mystique surrounding John, in his mind.

There were manly hugs going on around the pool: the sudden crashing of chests, heads pulled back, with fast and vigorous open hand slaps on each other's backs. Many smiles and trading of stories. Sherlock paid close attention to the people that greeted John, gauging his reactions, filing them away. He was curious about this Gwen. _Ah, that must be her_, he thought, as a red headed woman walked in, greeting and hugging as she went along. Several of the guys immediately turned their heads as she walked in. She eventually walked towards John and they exchanged a friendly hug, while some of the guys around them exchanged smirks. They talked for a while, no different than how they had acted with everybody else, and both moved on to continue greeting the new arrivals.

Then another woman tapped John's arm. She was blond, petite and stronger than the red headed one. When he turned around, he flashed his brightest smile of the day and not only gave her a hug, but lifted her from the ground briefly, affectionately. The people around them smirked again. The woman he had thought was Gwen looked sideways, and she seemed envious. John and this other woman talked animatedly too.

Eventually one of the guys called for everybody's attention and that made people start to head for the locker rooms to change. Or, like John, to undress by the pool, setting his clothes on a lounging chair and beginning to apply some sun cream. Sherlock was astonished. John was wearing very small light blue shorts. They weren't skin tight like Speedos, or anything vulgar or indecent, but still, close fitting, small and short. They showed his thighs, something Sherlock had only glimpsed that one time when John wore a gown around the flat, after showering. His breath caught and he felt very warm all the sudden.

There were many very attractive men in the party, yet, some of the women (not all obviously soldiers) seemed to notice John. _The shorts! Clever of him. Predictable._

Waiters were serving drinks set over a long table, covered with a white tablecloth, under a tent. As far as he could tell, John seemed to favour water or lemonade. _Of course, hydration is his main concern in this heat._ He talked animatedly with everybody. There was some shoving around and people were thrown in the pool, him included. His skin glistened in the water. They stood in the pool, still talking, laughing, horsing around. _Really, some of his mates act like immature teenagers._ It was surprising to see him so unconcerned with his scars.

John now sat by the edge of the pool, legs in the water, talking to three friends. Then he got up and joined another group. Now and then the group would change, but he seemed to get along with all of them. Or rather, they all seemed to like him and want to be around him. Sherlock could tell when someone talked to John about his scar. But just like he said, John seemed comfortable with them. And many showed him their own scars. Some of them wore prosthetics and remained dry, despite wearing bathers. Three were in wheelchairs. Yet, all received his attention. Eventually he excused himself and presumably went to the loo.

When he came back, he sat on one of the lounging chairs to talk to the blond woman he had lifted from the ground earlier. He let the sun dry his skin, talking and smiling warmly at her. Clearly she was still a soldier, judging by her impressive abs. She laid on her stomach and he copied her, heads turned to each other. His bum looked perfect in those shorts, his back quite muscular. Then one man approached them and it was clear that they welcomed him. He sat on the edge of John's chair and the three talked happily, relaxed, sipping their drinks. John seemed to be having a good time. This fellow was muscular, had the usual military partial tan and dark brown hair.

Now dry, John was re-applying his sun cream, and the blonde offered help and spread it on his back. That won catcalls from some of the guys, but they merely smiled and talked back to the teasing crowd. He applied some on her back too, causing some people to yell 'TC!' She also helped their friend, winning more teasing from the others.

Around four the women started to take their leave, the blond one included. Females always needed so much time to get ready... Now John was in the water, chatting with the fellow that had joined them in the chairs. The crowd was much smaller now and John decided to swim a bit, doing a couple of laps. The red headed woman was still there; she approached and sat by the edge of the pool, waiting for him. He saw her and stopped swimming. He was breathing a bit heavily, but smiled and spent some time with her. She was by far the most attractive woman in the entire party, yet, he had greeted her pretty much like the others (except for the blond woman). Soon, she too had to leave. By five he was dry from the sun and didn't go in the water anymore, talking to the other guys.

John looked at his watch and started to get dressed again. It was twenty past five.

Sherlock waited until he couldn't see John anymore and sat back at the desk, looking into Mycroft's folder.


	9. The dinner

**9\. ****The dinner**

'Hey, Sherlock. Did you move at all since I left?'

'Hm?'

'Never mind.' Sherlock turned and John seemed relaxed and happy. His eyebrows seemed a bit lighter after the whole afternoon in the sun. 'I'm sorry you missed such a beautiful Summer day. It was just perfect! Shame really, to spend the day indoors.'

'Well, John, I don't do parties, much less the kind that requires lying under the sun like a sea lion. I was perfectly fine looking into this file.'

'Any leads?'

'A few ideas, so far.'

'Good! I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself then. I'll go shower now and we can start getting ready for dinner.' Surprisingly, John started to undress, undoing the top two buttons and pulling his shirt from behind his neck, taking it off in one sweep over his head. This is something he would have never done at the flat. Standing only a few feet away, his skin smelled of sun, chlorine and sun cream. He irradiated warmth, being a strong presence in the room, a pulling force that made all converge to him. When John removed his trousers facing away from Sherlock, the shorts snapped slightly at the waist, enough to show just how much of a difference an afternoon under the sun did for John. He already had a tan line.

Heading towards the bathroom, John called out 'Oh, and I asked Brian, he said it was good of you to bring your tuxedo. His bride's family is quite formal and they insisted in this being a fancy event.' He closed the door to finish undressing. Sherlock heard the shower, then he caught a glimpse of himself on the mirror in front of him. He was surprised to see his own cheeks so flushed, his heart thudding loudly in his chest.

Maybe it was seeing him shirtless at such close range earlier. Maybe it was the night he had a glimpse of John's sexual life. But today, in those small beach shorts, he seemed to exude sex. Maybe that's what women saw in him.

…..

One of the reasons for his choice in swimming costume had been pride. He didn't want his mates to think he had let himself go, all flabby and soft once out of the Army. In fact, he had doubled his exercising efforts in the past month. He wanted to look good in bathers, he admitted to himself, embarrassedly. But the main reason was, he bought those because of Marisa. She had helped him with shopping for clothes for the events of this weekend. She had insisted that he should get pieces that actually showed his physique. When it came to the swimming attire, he had gone straight for the longer and loose ones, but she had chosen these for him, saying he'd look great in them. Given the enthusiastic session that followed that shopping trip, he had been looking forward to four days on the beach with her. He was counting on the small shorts to keep her interested. His jaw had dropped once she had shown what she'd be wearing on the beach. He wasn't sure it was legal. But it certainly would've kept him interested.

John only realised he had undressed in front of Sherlock a bit late. Having spent the afternoon with his mates brought back that familiar freedom in respect to his body. When showers and sleeping quarters were always collective, any hang ups about one's own nudity quickly dissipated. That was partly why he had known being shirtless in front of his mates wouldn't be a problem. He usually felt shy in front of Sherlock, but this time he completely forgot himself. Once he became aware of what he had done, he didn't look back and headed straight to the bathroom as fast as he could without actually running.

…..

John came out of the bathroom wearing his stripped gown. 'Your turn, if you need to shower and shave.'

'Hm? Oh. Right.' Sherlock quickly grabbed what he needed and locked himself in the bathroom, keeping mostly his back towards John. He was still unsettled. John's shorts were hanging to dry in the extra towel rack inside the shower; he had washed them, apparently. He was showering and staring at them when John knocked on the door. 'Sherlock? I'll be down at the lobby. Some of the guys are in this hotel too and we'll just be catching up some more. All right?'

'Fine. I'll join you in twenty five minutes.'

Once he heard the bedroom door close, he took care of himself.

….

When Sherlock reached the lobby, the dreadful evening started. John's mates that were staying at the same hotel were some of the rowdier ones. They were teasing John when he got there, recalling his TC conquests. Introductions made, Sherlock made sure to start heading outside, to get into a cab and away from them. Unfortunately, two of the mates joined them, which made for an irritating ride. Sherlock retreated into his mind to ignore his discomfort. John had warned everybody at the pool party about how eccentric his flatmate was. So they accepted his behaviour and fully ignored it.

At the restaurant, there was a separate banquet room reserved for the wedding party. This was a smaller group than the party scheduled for tomorrow. This one was for the Army friends of the groom and their guests. Dinner would be served in half an hour, while the guests had drinks, hors d'oeuvres and a chance to mingle. Sherlock was surprised to see John in a decent new attire. New trousers, shirt, jacket, even shoes. Not just decent. He looked good. Quite attractive, actually. Handsome, even. They fitted him much better than his usual clothes. Having used sun cream he wasn't sunburned, but his nose and the top of his cheekbones were slightly red from the afternoon sun.

'Sherlock, come meet some of my friends. This is Gwen...'

_Ah, the red headed one. __I was right._ He nodded, but became aware of her appraising look.

'...This is Max...'

_The sun cream fellow._ Who stared deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

'… This is Terry...'

_The blond woman. __That's why I didn't know who she was. __I saw emails from a Terry and thought it was a man. Stupid, always something!_ She had a frank smile. He could immediately tell why John liked her.

Several other introductions later, Sherlock had given up remembering their names. Not that he couldn't, he just had no interest. Many showed interest in him, seeing that they followed John's blog and had many questions about their cases. He started to resent it, feeling like a circus attraction, so he started reading them out loud to their faces. John pulled him away, saying they should go find their seats.

'Sherlock, please!' he hissed.

'What? They were annoying.'

'Yes, I know. But please just let it be, all right? Stop reading people and blurting their secrets out loud. We'll be seating with Max, Terry and their guests, so please promise me you won't do that to them. Please? Sherlock?'

Sherlock huffed. _This was really a bad idea... What possessed me to think I could stand this?_

As it turned out, Max and Terry were quite pleasant, not rowdy like the others. They were smart and the conversation was intelligent enough to make the dinner tolerable. The bride and groom did their rounds around the tables, greeting all guests, shaking hands, hugging, et cetera. Brian seemed like a nice guy, if perhaps a bit dim, and his bride was pretty, perfect and shallow. John seemed to be very happy for them.

Terry was also a doctor, so John and her were pretty close, having shared so many experiences and worked many hours together. She was a bit of a tomboy, her blond hair was tied back in a low ponytail, the little bit of make-up she wore emphasised her hazel eyes. She had brought her sister as her guest and one could tell the family resemblance. The sister's name was Jeanie and she was very pretty, with strawberry blond hair and similar hazel eyes. She was a chemist and worked at a research centre. Sherlock took the opportunity to ask her about her suppliers. He had been having trouble finding some of his more unusual material. John was seated next to her so they talked animatedly, as she had heard many stories about him through her sister. Terry told many fun stories about John, which pleased Sherlock. He enjoyed hearing about John's life before they had met. He wished he had known him then and these stories gave him a taste of it. Jeannie had a similar personality to her sister, always joking and laughing. Predictably, John flirted with Jeanie and she reciprocated. Sherlock noticed some of the guys were smirking in John's direction, making comments in hushed voices.

Interestingly enough, Max was a sniper. Upon close inspection, one could see that under the polite smile, there was steel. A coiled violence, ready to be unleashed. John was somewhat like that, in a more tamed degree. And just like John, Max too, could remain inscrutable. Sherlock could tell his background, that he was single and lived solely for the Army at the moment, but nothing more interesting. Max looked as solid as a brick wall, despite being quite svelte. The fact that he was a sniper fascinated Sherlock. He asked more questions than Max was comfortable or allowed to discuss, but he was genial enough and charming when he couldn't or didn't want to answer. He rarely smiled, and usually sported a frown. His lips in repose curled up at the ends, and his blue eyes were big, hooded and slanted down, giving him an air of sleepiness. Occasionally Terry's stories would make him laugh and the smile was wide, the right side pulling higher than the left, lighting up his face, lifting the cloud that hung over it.

His guest was a pretty brunette named Melanie. She had relatives in town, so she was visiting with them, instead of staying with Max. Clearly she was not Max's girlfriend, but a close friend, judging by the intimacy with which they treated each other. She was an archeologist, which also contributed to an interesting conversation. John loved archeology and told her it had been one of his passions as a boy, almost his career choice. Sherlock hadn't known that. _Interesting!_

'Let me guess, Indiana Jones?' Melanie laughed and the whole table joined her. Only Sherlock remained puzzled.

Despite all the teasing, Terry and John seemed to be just that, good friends. He treated her almost as if she were his little sister. Then Sherlock remembered Gwen. Casting a discrete look, he noticed that now and then she would cast a glance towards John. _No wonder all the others were teasing John about her. __She does fancy him._ John caught him looking at Gwen and frowned, surprised.

_Funny how all the couples in this table are not couples at all_, Sherlock realised.

Once the dinner was over, the others started to round their buddies to go to a pub. To Sherlock's relief, John declined, saying he was tired after being the whole day in the sun.

'TC, civilian life made you soft. Since when a bit of sun makes you tired?'

'Yeah, you were in the desert for three tours, for Christ's sake!'

'Oh, come on, TC!'

_Et cetera. __Et cetera. __Et cetera._ Mercifully, Terry grabbed John's arm and announced he had previously agreed to go have coffee with her and her sister at their hotel, which won a collective 'Oooooh!' from the guys. Gwen looked disappointed.

After they were left alone, John thanked her. 'I mean, I love these guys but they can be a bit too much.'

'I know!' she said. 'But seriously, would all of you like to go for a coffee? There's a charming little cafe' just across the street from our hotel.'

Sherlock was still a bit curious about the sniper, so he agreed. He felt a little better with the smaller group. They didn't keep them too long. The sisters were also tired from their trip, as they had come from much farther. An hour later they said their goodbyes and parted. Sherlock and John's hotel was within walking distance from the cafe' so they strolled lazily back. Max and Melanie took a cab. His hotel was only a bit further down the beach, but he wanted to drop her off at her relatives first. He knew them and wanted to say hello.


	10. The numbers

**10\. The numbers**

It was a nice Summer evening, and John removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, the other hand in his pocket. Sherlock glanced and noted how the new shirt hugged his torso.

'So, did you have a good time, Sherlock?'

'Hm. With your closer friends it was tolerable.'

'Oh, come on. You were fascinated with Max being a sniper.' John had observed Sherlock closely at dinner. That had been unusual for him, to show so much interest in someone. It left John unsettled.

'Yes, that was quite interesting. Your other mates are just apes. Or teenagers, which is the same.'

John laughed at that. It pleased Sherlock when he could make John laugh. 'I suppose you're right. They can be like that when all of us are in the same room. But one on one, they are all good guys.'

'You and Max seem to get along very well. Were you ever trained as a sniper too?'

'No! God no. That's not for me. But Max is really good, it's quite astonishing how steady and accurate he is. You can tell his level of concentration just in the way he carries himself. He never wastes movements.'

'You admire him.' A statement, not a question.

'Of course! He's brilliant at what he does.'

Sherlock winced internally at the word. 'One can sense the potential for violence in him. Some sadness too.'

'Yes, I know what you mean. I can't imagine how much of a psychological impact being a sniper must have on anyone. It's already hard enough to be a soldier...' he trailed off, unwilling to continue.

Sherlock waited. When John didn't continue, he added, 'In a way, you're almost like him.'

'How so?'

'The doctor and the soldier, calm and potential for violence underneath the jumpers.'

John chuckled, 'Oh come on, I'm not _that _ violent.'

'Says the man who punched me in the face, then tried to strangle me...'

John laughed at the memory and Sherlock joined in, pleased.

'Hey, you asked for it. And not only with words...'

'I had to, you were just wasting time.' Then, after a pause, 'How did you become friends?'

'Oh, the usual. I saved his arse in a shootout, patched him up a couple of times.' Then, after a pause, 'Once he actually saved mine.' Sherlock wanted to know more, but John's face had darkened and it didn't look like he wanted to talk about it. Usually he would've blazed his way into making him talk. But then he remembered a more nagging question in his mind.

'You didn't mention the other girls.'

'What other girls?'

'Your mates listed many more than the nine you told me about.'

'Oh, that. Well, this was when I was much younger... I mean...'

'...You had one night stands.'

'Well... When I was sent abroad I had just broken up with Lilly. It was one of the most serious long term relationships I've had. We had been together for five years, we were going to get married and all. But it was not meant to be. So I basically went crazy, desperately trying to forget her. That's how this whole TC thing started.'

'Understandable. How many?'

'Erm... five.'

'Countries?'

'Ah. Hm. Let's see, Spain. United States. One was English too. Hm, another German girl. And... Australia.'

'Fourteen in eighteen months?'

'Well, they weren't real relationships, so I'm not too concerned with "propping up my numbers" by mentioning them. The guys just love the story and the idea of it, making me look more like a sleazy womanising pig.'

'But surely you have counted and know your "numbers".'

'Sherlock! That's personal! Not to mention ridiculous and juvenile!'

'Your reaction would indicate that the numbers are either too low or too high. I seriously doubt it's the former.'

'Sherlock!'

'It's quite easy to arrive at a number by extrapolating from the known data I already have.'

'Shut it, will you? That's stupid.'

'One can assume you started at age fifteen or sixteen. Perhaps the first girlfriend lasted a year. After that, a quick series of non-serious dates, nothing that lasted too long. Then going on an average of two a year, minus the time in Afghanistan that, according to you, didn't allow for much dating. Take into consideration that one long term relationship that lasted five years and yet allowing for maybe two of three that might have lasted a couple of years... Mmm. F... orty... one!'

John stopped walking, his face fell and he was once again staring open mouthed, eyes wide.

'John, John, you astound me. I had never pegged you as promiscuous,' he teased. He was pleased that he was able to read John's minute reactions in the fractions of seconds as he tested the numbers to pinpoint that one.

'Sherlock!' He just couldn't believe it. How much more intruding could he be? And how did they get on this topic? And how did he guess the number? John felt himself go crimson. This made him look like a promiscuous jerk. But really, aside those one night stands and the faster rate of dating abroad and at Baker Street, for most part he had had one or two girlfriends a year, sometimes none - during his tours, for example. He braced himself for what would come next.

'Your mates, they were right about Gwen.'

'What? You too?' That was unexpected. 'Come on, Sherlock. Look at her. She's way out of my league. She seemed to like you though.' _And I saw you looking at her_, he added to himself.

Sherlock noticed John threw a sideways glance at him, evaluating his reaction. 'So? So does Molly.'

'Sherlock! Gwen is nothing like Molly. Surely even you can see that.'

'That means exactly the same to me. Not interested.'

John sighed and shook his head at that.

….

John had not been lying. He was tired after a day in the sun. He went to the bathroom and came back smelling of toothpaste, in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Sherlock took his turn, but when he was done, John was already asleep. Sherlock left the lights on for a while, watching and thinking. After a couple of sleepless and boring hours in the dark, he got up and opened the curtains to look at the night outside.

He could see small fishing boat lights in the distance, some stars, and the pool next door, softly lit. He had enjoyed seeing John so carefree in the pool yesterday. So much so that he forgot himself and undressed in front of Sherlock. He could see now why the Army had been the ideal place for John. The proximity of danger seemed to be what kept him so relaxed, at ease. Just an afternoon with his mates and he acted completely different. He remembered John smelling of sun and chlorine, face and eyebrows sun kissed. The edge of a tan line at his waist. He turned to observe. Under the lights coming from outside, he watched the sleeping form on the bed, now on his stomach, facing away from the window. Sherlock remembered seeing him at the pool in a similar position. How perfect he had looked. With a rush of heat, he felt it again. That arousal. He contented himself in looking at John for now.

After a while it became unbearable. He got dressed and went for a walk on the deserted and dark beach.

…

John woke up with a start around four in the morning, sweating and panting. As expected, being close to the guys brought back ugly memories and nightmares. Blinking, he saw the curtains were open, allowing some distant boat light shine inside the room. He stumbled over to close them, when he noticed Sherlock's bed was empty. His eyes moved to the bathroom, but it was also empty. He frowned and hazily worried. He closed the curtains, laid down still groggy, thinking of getting up to go looking for him. Then he heard soft steps outside the bedroom door. Soon the door opened, and John allowed himself to drift off again. He knew it was Sherlock.


	11. The morning swim

**11\. The morning swim**

When John woke up, Sherlock was in pyjamas and gown, sitting on the armchair by the window, looking into the folder on his lap.

'Morning. Did you sleep at all?' He stretched and yawned.

'No.'

'Did you go out last night after I fell asleep?'

'Yes.'

'Where did you go?'

'Walked. On the beach.'

'You did?'

'Why the surprise?'

'That's just so... unlike you.' Seeing Sherlock's annoyance, he let it go. 'Well, I want to go for a quick swim before breakfast.'

'I'll go with you.'

'What?'

'John.'

'Yes, I heard you, I'm just surprised. Are you also going to swim?'

'Of course not. I just want to go outside. I need a break from this case Mycroft is trying to push on me.'

'Oh. Any progress?'

'Perhaps.' He knew John wouldn't press. Not on a 'National Security' case. He wasn't reading it, though. In reality, he had been watching John sleep. Now he just wanted to watch him swim, up close.

John changed in the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face and came out wearing a t-shirt, shorts and flip flops. Sherlock took his turn, saying he'd meet John at the pool.

It was still a bit early so there was no one else around, only a few hotel employees here and there. The sun was already high, but the water was still a bit cold. John had completed a lap when he saw Sherlock lazily walking around the pool. When he got to the end, he stopped by Sherlock. He was wearing his usual white shirt and black trousers, but this time his shirt was untucked and the sleeves rolled up loosely. He was also wearing...

'Since when do you wear flip flops?' Granted, they were made out of leather and looked more expensive than his jacket and trousers from last night combined.

'I've always had them. I just usually have no occasion to wear them. I'm in a pool now. It's appropriate.'

'I guess. I've just never seen you like this.'

'Like what?'

'Looking... relaxed. Informal. Unfussy.'

'I'm not fussy.'

'Yes you are.' John flashed a smile and resumed his swimming. In the water, he thought he liked Sherlock like this. He looked so attractive even when being careless in his attire. His arms looked lovely in the rolled up sleeves like that.

This was hard. He felt attracted to Sherlock. Whose reaction to Gwen's attention yesterday only confirmed what he had known since that first time at Angelo's. Sherlock is simply not interested. If he could be so unmoved even by someone like Gwen, no one would ever attract his attentions. He had shown some interest in Max, but it seemed to be just because he's a sniper. _I've never been interested in men before. After a lifetime of being straight and with all the men in the world, why did it have to be him?_

He knew the answer, of course. His fascination with foreigners indicated that all throughout his life he had been looking for someone different, unique, interesting. Sherlock fitted all that, even if by gender alone. After him, everybody else sounded boring, both men and women. By the end of their first year together as flatmates, his dating had started to decline precisely for that reason. True, their crazy lifestyle (and Sherlock himself) interfered with it. But all relationships faded after the initial spark wore off. He had had great hopes in Marisa at first, she was by far one of the most interesting ones of late. But after his own body's reaction to Sherlock's touch - one finger, on his scars alone - it became clear to him that his feelings went beyond friendship. His situation was hopeless.

As long as John was swimming, Sherlock could watch him. He enjoyed cataloguing the way his back muscles moved. John seemed to favour his left side in his strokes, yet still looked graceful. When John stopped, Sherlock made sure to be looking towards the sliver of sea visible from the pool deck.

'Sherlock. I'm also-going to check-their sauna.' he panted, still in the water. Sherlock felt his stomach drop hearing him breathless like this.

'Oh. Maybe I should try that too.'

John was surprised, but didn't comment. He felt a momentary twinge of embarrassment, he needed to get out of the pool. _Well, nothing he hasn't seen by now, plus Sherlock couldn't care less..._ So he pushed himself up and out of the pool, grabbed a towel from the pile available to guests and patted himself dry, trying not to think of the observant eyes that could see through him. Sherlock observed out of the corners of his eyes, mesmerised.

The saunas were separate, inside each locker room, which meant men could go in in any state of undress they wanted to. Sherlock took a towel and started to unbutton his shirt by the lockers. John shoved his clothes in one and quickly walked away. The sauna was a small room, with two tiers of benches. He set the timer for 15 minutes and laid down on the bottom bench, still in his bathers and using a towel to line the wooden deck. Sherlock climbed up and sat above John, sideways, his legs stretched out on the bench. It was a dry sauna, and soon John's skin glistened with sweat. He had his eyes closed. Sherlock tried to do the same, but he couldn't keep still, stealing glances now and then. There were beaded sweat drops right above John's upper lip... Halfway through, John flipped onto his stomach. Sherlock really liked that view and desperately tried not to stare. It would be really a bad idea to get aroused now. John seemed to have dozed off.

When the timer beeped and stopped the sauna, John sat up and wrapped the towel around his waist. Outside, he went to a stall ostensively to use the loo but put his clothes back on while in there. Sherlock noticed that, when John came out, he was holding the blue bathers in front of him. Which meant he had nothing under the shorts. John was about to wait for him, but Sherlock said it would be best if he showered in the locker room, to avoid waiting for his turn upstairs. 'I'll meet you at breakfast.'

John was relieved to hear that. He had tried to close his eyes in the sauna, but knowing that Sherlock was next to him wearing nothing but a towel drove him crazy. Soon he had to flip onto his stomach to hide his arousal. When the timer went off, he made sure to always have his back to Sherlock. Then he carried the bathers in a way to discretely cover himself. He would have privacy now.

Sherlock decided to stay in the locker room for privacy's sake. _Three times within the past 24 hours! This is unprecedented. Insane._

They had a quiet breakfast. Sherlock looked sleepy.

'Sherlock, maybe you should go upstairs and take a nap. You look really tired. You haven't slept for... what, three days now? You were up the whole night again yesterday and we have the wedding and party tonight. Speaking of which, are you still planning on coming tonight?'

'Yes.' He was looking forward to seeing John in uniform. He had been wondering about it ever since that night he had listened in.

John was puzzled. 'But what about the case? It's unlike you to eat breakfast, let alone go to a wedding party during a case.'

'Mycroft's case is not really my case. It's just a distraction so I don't die of boredom. I'm going back to it after breakfast.'

'Oh. Right. Then, will you make sure you eat?'

'Of course, John.'

John didn't believe him. 'Okay. I might just go walk around and see the town then. Text me if you need anything. I'll be meeting Terry, Jeannie and Max for lunch, then Max and I will go for a walk on the beach. We might swim, but I think the sea will be too cold.'

'I never knew you liked swimming that much.'

'Well, I don't get to pools and beaches very much, so might as well enjoy while I'm here. It's quite a pretty place, it's so nice to be outdoors. Plus, it's Summer, you should try to enjoy it. You could come too, if you want. They enjoyed meeting you.'

'My brain would rot if I had to sit on the beach for more than five minutes. Dull!'

…..

After his exertions, Sherlock did fall asleep for a few hours.


	12. The beach

Note: so this is the beach scene I had imagined. If it exists in England, let me know. :) 

* * *

**12.****The Beach**

He hadn't planned on sleeping. Sherlock woke up feeling a bit disoriented, having just heard John walk out of the room and softly close the door. Looking at the clock, he realised John must have come in to get his bathers, after having lunch with his friends. He gathered Max and him would be at the beach by now. He felt an urge to join them. It pleased him to watch John in those small shorts and Max was not annoying. He walked towards the beach and soon saw a glimpse of light blue in the distance. They were sitting side by side on the sand, arms wrapped around their knees, talking and staring at the sea. Sherlock stayed on the pavement above them until he was directly behind them. Suddenly, Max turned his head to look at John. His face showed concern and surprise. Sherlock frowned and maintained the distance, waiting to determine whether or not he should join them. They stayed like this for a while, not moving, staring straight ahead. Max seemed to be only listening, occasionally turning to John with an alarmed look on his face.

Then, they got up and started to stroll on the beach. The beach was quite crowded, being a perfect Summer day. People paraded up and down the shore, children played on the sand, and the pavement where Sherlock followed was busy. _John is already getting tanned._

After about twenty minutes, they were approaching a rockier area of the beach. Not many people around, as there were no places to stretch and sunbathe. Some of the rocks were large, as tall as a one-story house. Both men climbed up and down, and progress was slow. Sherlock couldn't see them well, so he decided to go down too. The rocks were weathered smooth by higher tides, so he decided to go barefoot, just like them. When he rounded a large boulder, he stopped on his tracks and his breath caught at this sight.

About ten meters away, John was leaning against a slanted, black and smooth rock. His head was tilted towards the sun, eyes closed. His t-shirt was tucked into his waistband, hanging over his hip and his flip flops were dangling in one hand. One of his legs was bent, resting on the boulder behind him. John's skin looked golden against the black rock, and a sheen of sweat made his skin sparkle in the sunlight. He almost forgot himself, thinking of nothing but to approach and touch him.

Then Max came into his field of view.

Max had a different look in his eyes this time. Usually he guarded himself against the outside world, keeping his feelings away from prying eyes. This time his eyes showed a deep and barely contained emotion. They showed desire. With his chest heaving with passion, he stretched out a hand and touched John's face, caressing the cheek under his thumb. John opened his eyes. Max approached slowly, roaming his eyes back and forth between John's eyes and mouth, his hand traveling towards the nape. Sherlock felt like rushing and pulling Max away from John. _He won't like that, get away from him._ But before he could utter a sound or take a step forward, Max leaned in and touched his forehead to John's. Sherlock's stomach dropped at this sight and his own breathing quickened. Max dropped what he was holding and brought the other hand to cup John's face, pulling slightly away. They looked into each other's eyes, and Max whispered something. John just stared at him, brow creased. Then, he nodded. Max let go of his face and, after a pause, they turned and started their way back. Sherlock hid and followed them.

….

They put their t-shirts and sandals back on before leaving the beach, then walked into Max's hotel.

Sherlock lost track of how long he stood there on the pavement, his mind whirling. Time had simply stood still. He came back to his senses with a start, and walked as quickly as his feet could carry him back to his hotel. He sat on the armchair, hands trembling.

He couldn't understand why this time it hurt so much. He had been annoyed at John's girlfriends before, but not even listening in that night a few weeks ago had been this painful. He tried to control his breathing, clasped his hands together, and retreated into his mind to deeply analyse what he had seen and his reactions to it.

Sherlock understood, for the first time in his life, what it felt like to have a broken heart.

…...

By the end of the day John returned, to find Sherlock sitting on the armchair, staring into space. To his surprise, Sherlock didn't ignore him.

'Sherlock! Have you been outside? You're terribly sunburned! Are you in pain right now?' He approached and touched Sherlock's forehead and cheek with the back of his hand. 'Your skin is really hot. I did bring some cream for sunburn, I think you should put some-'

Startled by the touch, he blurted 'Where have you been?'

John's ears turned red as he answered, rummaging for the cream. 'I told you earlier. Just walking on the beach with Max, enjoying the sun.' Then he turned, 'The wedding is in two hours, we should probably get some food now. Dinner won't be until 9 tonight. Come on Sherlock, let's check out the hotel's tea room.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Hungry or not, you need to eat. At least a snack. I bet you didn't have lunch today, did you?'

John noticed something wasn't right. 'Sherlock, what's wrong?'

'Nothing, John.'

'Is it Mycroft's case?'

'Yes. Yes, it is.'

'Don't worry. You'll solve it, I know it. Now, just put some of this on your face, it'll bring you some relief...'

Sherlock was distracted and seemed to not have heard the bit about the cream. John sighed. Shaking his head, he took it upon himself and applied some cream to Sherlock's face and neck, in quick strokes, walking around to reach the nape. Sherlock was distracted because he was surprised. For one thing, the shock of John's hand on his face. Had the touch been a lingering one, he might've been unable to contain himself and not lean against that hand. But, more importantly, he slowly realised he couldn't smell anything different in John. His breath smelled like he had had something to drink (_non alcoholic, too early in the day and too hot - which means, he remained in control of his senses_), and his skin, only of sun cream, sweat (_his own_) and sand. No foreign smells that indicated an intimate encounter or a shower to mask it. He felt relieved and slightly confused. He hadn't noticed his own sunburn before, but now with the coolness of the cream he realised it did make his skin feel good. He couldn't help but notice how gratifying it was to feel John still cared about him and feel his hand on his face and neck. Professional strokes, nothing sentimental about them. Yet, it brought back some of the warmth that had been absent in his chest for the past few hours.

He still didn't eat, but accepted some tea. 'John, I had breakfast today,' he protested. 


	13. Man in uniform

Note: I had started writing this long before Season 3 came along and had to do a ridiculous amount of research to get this right. It was dull and dry reading, especially trying to figure out the medals. In the end, my beta thought the medal explanation (at a later chapter) was not as interesting and broke the rhythm of the story too much. Oh well, I'll let you know what they are at the end (as I envision it).

I even asked an English friend of mine who was in the Army about the uniform, and he pretty much said each - Unit? Battalion? Regiment? (can't remember anymore) - has its own traditions and differences. So there's pretty much not much of a rigid standard in it.

Just being OCD. :)

* * *

**13\. ****Man in uniform**

They took turns in the bathroom again. Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom already in his tuxedo, then put his worn clothes away before turning back to the room. When John saw him through the mirror he froze for a second, his breath catching in his throat.

Sherlock looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. Not that it was that much different from his usual shirt and suit attire. But still, it made John's heart skip a beat. He averted his eyes just in time.

Sherlock had never seen him in uniform before, he too froze at the sight. John was buttoning his cuffs in front of the closet mirror, his jacket still in the hanger, waiting. The white shirt was crisply pressed and had a high flat collar. It was tucked into navy blue trousers with red stripes on the sides, which perfectly hugged his bum. His hair was parted on the side and combed back with some gel, giving him an entirely different appearance.

'Your hair.'

'Hm? Oh. Well, it's a bit too long to go with the uniform, so I had to comb it back. It just looked wrong, I've only worn this dress uniform when I had a buzz cut.' He put on the jacket, concentrating on the golden buttons. 'The tux looks good on you,' he said without looking up. 'Good thing you brought it.'

Sherlock watched, fascinated. The uniform and the hair style made John look completely different. The hair style made him look older and conservative, but also, like a distinguished gentleman and... oddly, sexy. The part was on the left and then the hair flowed in a slight wave, up and down before sweeping back. The blue of the uniform was so dark it looked black in this light. John's rank showed on the shoulder tabs. The collar of the jacket was high, and only a sliver of the white shirt showed above it.

John noticed Sherlock's attention. 'This is the "No. 1 Dress", also known as "Blues".' He pulled a stripped belt and slid it into place, securing it at the front with a golden buckle, which cinched his waist and emphasised his trim shape. Pointing at the belt's horizontal stripes he said, 'These are the colours for the RAMC unit (maroon, navy blue and yellow, Sherlock noted) and this (pointing at the oval buckle) is my regiment's symbol: St. George slaying the dragon, and "Northumberland Fusiliers" printed around it.' He turned to a box that had been sitting on the bed and took out his medals and decorations. Three pre-set in a row, with one single pin, which he attached above the left chest pocket. Two of them had horizontal metal bars on the ribbon. 'This one with these colours on the ribbon stripes (beige, light blue, navy blue and red) indicate tours of duty in Afghanistan.'

Strangely, John didn't elaborate on the others. He'd check online later. Knowing John, he probably didn't think he deserved the medals. He put on a pair of short white gloves, then pulled a navy blue beret out of the same flat box, settling it on his head. There was a Rod of Asclepius on the beret, above the left eye, marking him as a doctor. He carefully surveyed himself on the mirror, making sure everything was in its proper place. He frowned, turned and surveyed his back, straightening his belt and jacket. His shoes gleamed. Finally satisfied, he turned to Sherlock, smiling proudly, chin up, shoulders back, in a 'standing at ease' position. 'What do you think?'

It took a few seconds for Sherlock's voice to respond to his brain. He managed a small and proud smile. 'Perfect.' He was glad that the sunburn would hide any flushing on his cheeks. Sherlock knew he would never ever forget this image of John, smiling, looking so... He turned away abruptly, smile gone, 'We should go.'

_There was truth in what people said about men in uniform... _

John felt a bit miffed that Sherlock had pretty much dismissed something that was so important to him, that he wore so proudly. He rolled his eyes and followed.

...

If John looked handsome in his uniform, Sherlock wasn't prepared for how amazing Max would look in it. Now that he paid attention, Max was _very_ handsome. His features were just perfect. No, not perfect. But there was something about the whole arrangement of his eyes, nose, cheekbones and mouth that simply worked well together. His eyes stood out as large, sexy and beautiful, with their hooded downward slant. He realised now that, instead of making him look sleepy, one could say they looked like bedroom eyes. He felt jealous, no other word for it. He watched as both men greeted each other outside the church, both serious, no smiles this time. John's ears were red. Only after the fact he realised that, unconsciously, he had sat next to John on the pew, virtually placing himself between the two men. He felt ridiculously possessive, but couldn't deny it helped him feel better. Melanie sat next to Max, in a light purple dress.

The female soldiers, on the other hand, opted for civilian dress. Gwen drew all male heads (except for two, sitting next to John) with a dark green dress that complemented her red hair and alabaster skin. Several heads also turned to look at Terry, who wore a dark red dress that hugged her curves, usually hidden by the floppy camouflage uniform. Her sister Jeanie wore a blue dress, equally flattering (John noticed it appreciatively). Half of the guests were civilians, their presence marked by dresses and tuxedos. Terry had to dab her eyes here and there, which drew raised eyebrows from her friends. She never cried, as far as they knew it.

For an excruciatingly long and dull hour and a half, Sherlock waited for the ceremony to be over. It was all he could do not to bury his face in his hands and groan loudly. He could feel John's thigh pressed against his and the heat coming from Max, who made sure not to touch Sherlock. He knew he was crowding John a bit, but couldn't bring himself to pull away. Besides, that meant he'd be pressed against Max. The contact felt as comforting as Max's presence made him anxious. He could feel the tension between the two of them.

* * *

Note on medals: Here's a bit of Sherlock's investigation on the medals (if you care) that I deleted, but summarizes it:

'I looked online, you know. The records for each and every soldier who has received a medal is open to the public. I checked yours. The first one, on the right, is a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, awarded for "acts of bravery". The second one is a Military Cross, awarded for acts of bravery that basically help others. Both have bars over the ribbons, which indicate you actually have received four medals. Two for killing people, two for saving them.'

'Huh. That's a blunt explanation. So... why are you asking me?'

'I want to hear your story.'

* * *

The explanation was based on what I understood as the main difference by reading the soldiers' stories. Some women in the medics team kicked ass, saving their wounded amidst flying bullets (hitting next to them). They received the Military Cross. I was disappointed that it would look like John had 'only' two medals.


	14. The wedding party

**14\. The wedding party**

The party was being held in the same hotel where the pool party had taken place. Again the six of them sat together, but this time Max quickly sat at John's right, and Jeanie, to his left. That left Sherlock between Melanie and Terry. He watched the dull proceedings of meal, toasts, cake cutting, all blurred by the concentration he dedicated to the two men in front of him. Max tried hard not to stare at John, but he was constantly trying to catch his attention. When the music became louder after dinner, Max leaned over to speak in John's ear. He had an arresting smile and his eyes blazed, while Sherlock glared. No one noticed with the dimmed lights. John seemed a bit shy, and kept turning to Jeanie, trying to concentrate on her instead, flirting shamelessly. He asked her to dance and eventually everybody followed.

Sherlock stood up and walked around, so he could keep an eye on John. John and Jeanie seemed to be having a good time. John was surprisingly at ease dancing. He was actually graceful, in Sherlock's opinion. Some men were always self conscious, awkward or embarrassed to let themselves go when dancing. Not John. He seemed confident and self assured, which gave Sherlock a glimpse of the TC persona and made him understand why women fell for him. There it was again, that aura of power and danger that surrounded John. Sherlock rarely saw it because John never turned it on for him, he now realised with a pang of regret. With the different hair style and in uniform, he looked dashing, elegant and irresistible.

The pair stopped for drinks and a break. Then, halfway through the night, Gwen swept him back to the dance floor. In a whirl of comings and goings, most people seemed to be dancing. Sherlock just observed, unaware of the looks he himself was receiving. A few women came over and tried to talk to him, but he barely noticed them. A couple of men approached him, but were equally ignored.

By now the party had spilled outside by the pool. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John walking outside with Gwen, so he followed.

They strolled by the pool, and slowly made their way to the garden around it, where it was a little darker. Sherlock noticed that Max too, was watching the pair. They sat on a bench and chatted for a while. She said something that made John stop and stare at her for seemingly a long time, surprised. Then they leaned towards each other and kissed. Max raised his chin, but soon he couldn't stand it and walked away, an angry look on his face. John left with Gwen soon after. Sherlock didn't see him until the following morning.


	15. The morning

**15.****The morning**

Sherlock was completely out of his mind. He couldn't begin to comprehend what he had witnessed the previous day. The whole night he tried to organise what he knew, what he had seen, what he had heard. What were facts, what were mere supposition.

1\. John is straight. _Inconclusive_.

2\. John had a fling with Max in the past. _Possible._

3\. John had a one off with Max yesterday. _Unlikely, yet possible._

4\. Max has been in love with John for ages. _Fact._

5\. Gwen seems to have been in love with John for ages. _Possible._

6\. John responded to Jeanie. _Fact._

7\. John responded to Max. _Possible._

8\. John responded to Gwen's kisses. _Fact._

9\. John was not serious about Jeanie. _Possible._

10\. John was not serious about Gwen. _Possible._

11\. John was not serious about Max. _Possible._

12\. John has gone to bed with Max. _Possible._

13\. John has gone to bed with Gwen. _Quite possibly fact. __Most likely fact._

14\. John is bisexual. _Possible._

15\. If so, could he possibly, some day, be interested in me? _Inconclusive._

And he'd always stumble at that same point. If John could, after all, be with men, then maybe he, Sherlock, had a chance. But with Gwen and Max around, what chance did he really have? John was perpetually exasperated with him, complaining about things he did or failed to do. The other two seemed to just please him. Sentiment was his blind spot and he had no idea on how to deal with it. He also couldn't help feeling a bit angry. He was jealous. Both people, what right did they have to steal John from him? They had a perfect life together, this simply had to mean something. It had to.

If John developed a relationship with either of them, that meant he'd have to follow to wherever they would be stationed next. He would eventually leave Baker Street.

He remembered John saying 'we huddle together for warmth, it gets cold in the desert'. Had he and Max had an affair all along? John always said there had been no girlfriends while he was deployed. Surely, with his sexual appetite there had to have been some form of release? No, he couldn't imagine John, such a ladies man, with another male.

_Most likely, yesterday was John's first time with a man. __He chose Max, someone he trusted, a dear friend- __No, he didn't smell like he had just shagged Max yester-_

He was interrupted by John walking in, uniform all crumpled, jacket open at the neck, beret in hand, hair dishevelled. He had a somewhat guilty look in his eyes. Soon he averted them and wordlessly, removed his jacket, untied his shoes, grabbed some clothes and went to the bathroom to shower. The sun was already bright outside.

Soon there was a knock on the door. Sherlock got up and was surprised to see Max, standing with one arm bent and resting on the door frame, the other hand resting on his hip. Even in this relaxed pose, in shorts and a t-shirt, he still looked sexy. Sherlock was happy John hadn't seen it.

'Good morning, Sherlock. Is John in?'

'He's in the shower.'

'Can I come in and wait for him?'

Sherlock stepped aside. He could tell that, despite being calm, deep down Max was upset. He noticed Max looked at him curiously, and became aware that he was still wearing his tuxedo. Max sat at the armchair, leaning forward, legs wide apart, elbows over his thighs. The only hint of his state of mind was his frantically bouncing foot. He didn't attempt to talk, only waited. His gaze fell on the pristine beds, which indicated no one had slept on them. Foreseeing having to follow them, Sherlock started removing his tie and jacket.

When John came out in shorts and a t-shirt, he was shocked to see Max waiting for him. He stood up saying, 'John, we need to talk,' and simply left the room. John dropped the rest of his uniform on his bed and followed.

Sherlock rushed and threw on some less conspicuous shirt and ran after them. He looked in both directions when he got down to the lobby, then turned towards the beach. It was early enough that vacationers wouldn't be up, so that provided some privacy. Soon he saw them. John was sitting on the sand, just like the previous day, staring at the sea. Standing up, Max had his hands on his hips and talked while walking, gesticulating angrily, pacing, yelling at John. He looked wild. He kept on pacing, running one hand through his hair, talking angrily. He paused and stared at the sea, panting, hands still on his hips. Then he hung his head and the fight was gone from him. He sunk onto the sand next to John, head bowed. John looked at him and talked, while Max listened. They sat there for quite a long time. Sherlock couldn't tell whether they talked the whole time or merely sat in silence. Eventually, they got up and walked. They headed to Max's hotel again. Sherlock's heart sank. He went back to his room.


	16. A stroll on the beach

Note: At last, the final chapter. Thanks for staying with me and reading, following, favoriting, reviewing. It meant a lot to me! Let me know what you think. Hope I didn't disappoint you.

* * *

**16\. A stroll on the beach**

Desperate, he threw himself on Mycroft's case. He shoved the previous forty-eight hours into a box and locked it inside a cupboard, within a closet in an obscure area of his mind palace. He immersed himself in the reports of National Importance stamped 'Confidential' and puzzled through them. These were concrete, palpable facts, that he understood. Not the murky waters of emotions and feelings. He was vaguely aware that at different times of the day he heard something of the outside world. He heard the maid's surprise in finding him in the room without a 'do not disturb' sign warning her of his presence; someone else knocking on the door; John walking in and talking to him; someone else in the room talking to John. He did some research on his phone, called in a couple of favours, hacked into some sites. He didn't know how long he had been like that, but when he re-surfaced, he had solved Mycroft's case. He texted his brother. He had been right, it was an interesting case that offered him some relief and sanity. _Mycroft must not have had time to look into this. __Surely he would have seen the solution himself, much faster than I. __But he'll never hear that from me (he already knows it, anyway)._

Then... he was done. Where was John?

He texted.

**Solved Mycroft's case. Not difficult. Sent the results** **already. Where are you? SH**

He was relieved to hear the reply's buzz.

**Downstairs, hotel pub, overlooking the pool. Care for some food? Congrats on the case. I knew you'd solve it. JW**

He smiled. Good that some things never changed. John's support still meant a lot to him.

**I'll be there soon. SH**

He went to the bathroom, and seeing himself on the mirror, decided to clean up a bit. He took a quick shower, deciding to shave at the last minute. He always felt itchy when he didn't. Then he threw in a clean shirt, trousers, his regular shoes and went downstairs.

John had been waiting with a pint in front of him, staring at the distance, his cheek resting on his fist, when he heard Sherlock approach. _Who else would be wearing leather soled shoes in a pub by the pool_, he thought amused. His breath caught in his throat. Sherlock's hair was wet and springy, he was wearing a pale blue shirt, untucked and with rolled up sleeves again. His trousers and shoes were black. _How does he manage to look so immaculate having pulled his clothes out of a suitcase?_

Sherlock didn't know what to say. John had worry and distress etched all over his face. He tried for something neutral.

'You've had an eventful weekend.'

John chuckled, his frown softening momentarily. 'You can say that.' He looked embarrassed and averted his eyes. Then, seriously, he said 'You probably have already deduced all that has happened.'

'Not all, no. I fail to understand all this sentiment. I gave up and solved Mycroft's case instead.'

John chuckled again. 'Ah, Sherlock. Sometimes I envy you, you know that?'

'How so?'

'I wish I too could just step aside and store the emotions away. It would be such a relief sometimes.'

Not knowing what to say, he waited. John was still thinking, but decided to wait. 'Are you hungry?'

'Not particularly, no.'

'You haven't eaten the whole day. Here, look at the menu.'

Unwilling to put up a fight, Sherlock ordered Vichyssoise. At least it was cold, liquid-y and easier to swallow. John didn't feel hungry, but ordered some fish ad chips hoping to encourage Sherlock to eat. They both sat, overlooking the pool, in companionable silence. Sherlock noticed John was a bit sunburned, having gone to the beach with Max earlier without sun cream. His hair and eyebrows were slightly bleached.

After the meal, John suggested 'Care to walk on the beach with me?'

'You need some sun cream. You're a bit sunburned already.'

He chuckled. 'We seem to have changed roles. You're right. I'll go grab some. You might want to change your trousers and shoes too.'

'I didn't bring any other type of trousers, and I can go barefoot on the sand. I'll wait for you outside.'

When John returned, Sherlock was already standing on the sand, his trousers rolled up a bit, carrying his shoes in one hand, the other hand in his pocket. _God, he looks attractive in anything!_ John handed Sherlock the sun cream. 'You too will need it, Mr. Pale Face. Or rather, Mr. Shrimp Face.' Sherlock smiled and complied, amused. _Ever the doctor..._

So they set off, strolling down the beach. Sherlock noted it must be quite late in the day, judging by the sun. After a stretch of silence, John finally spoke.

'You already know what happened between Max and I, don't you?' He spoke looking down at his feet, picking his way through the sand.

_How to answer that?_ Carefully, he replied, 'I know that something happened between you and Max yesterday. I know he was upset because of you and Gwen last night. Are you and Max together now?'

'No. I made a mistake. I messed up. I might've lost a dear friend.'

_So being with another man was a mistake... _ 'Why?'

'Why what, exactly?'

'All of it.'

John exhaled hard, arranging his thoughts.

'Max and I have been friends for many years. I've always known he's gay and I respected that. Over time, he developed feelings for me. We had never actually spoken about it, but we both knew how he felt towards me. Yesterday we came really close to kissing for the first time.'

Sherlock couldn't contain a small intake of breath sound. This felt awkward, he wasn't sure he wanted to know more about this. But John continued, oblivious to his discomfort, staring at the sea.

'I wasn't disgusted or repelled by it. But I wasn't into it either. Max is a friend and I'm not in love with him. We talked afterwards and I thought he had understood. Then, at the wedding party, I was too embarrassed and wanted to distance myself from him. The more I did this, the more he tried to show he was okay with it. I knew I was hurting him, but I couldn't help it. I was a total and complete bastard.' He looked away towards the sea again, lowering his voice. 'Then Gwen surprised me. She too, had a crush on me, apparently. Now that I'm not in the Army anymore, she felt she could act on it. God, you've seen her. I took her hand like a drowning man would a life saver. I was appropriately ashamed of myself this morning. I had intended to go and talk to Max, but he came to our hotel first, so it was useless to try to hide it from you.'

This conversation was beyond Sherlock's ability, he didn't know how to proceed. John was being very honest, so he followed his lead. 'How are things between you now?'

'Shaky at best. We had a long talk today. We came to the beach to talk, but as it started to get crowded, we continued our conversation in his hotel room. We just talked for hours. He'll still be in town tomorrow. I hope I can patch things up with him before we leave.' After a pause, he had a small outburst. 'God, what was I thinking? That was so stupid!'

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was right. It was unwise to risk a friendship over unrequited love.

'And Gwen?'

'Christ, I had to talk to her too. Which I did when we woke up this morning. I'm not looking for a relationship right now, and thankfully, she wasn't either. She has broken up with her fiancee recently, but she's still pining for him. She's just a friend to me. Not as close as Max and Terry, so I told myself yesterday, to justify what happened.'

After a pause he added, 'To make matters worse, Jeanie and Terry are also angry with me. They think TC is a very appropriate nickname and that I'm a big bastard. In their minds, I egged Jeanie on, just to abandon her when a better offer came along. So in short, all my friends are upset with me right now and it sucks to be me.'

They continued walking in silence for a while.

'John, you and Max have known each other for a long time.' Sherlock said, abruptly.

'Yes, the whole time I was deployed.'

'Then, why now? What made him come to you?'

'Things... change.'

'How do you mean? What things?'

John sighed, 'I don't know how to explain this, but I feel like I have changed. I was trying to figure out the truth about myself, so I asked for his advice.'

They had reached the rocky part of the beach, but merely continued moving forward.

'What do you mean the truth about yourself? Wouldn't you already know it?'

'Until recently, I thought so. Now I'm not so sure of anything.'

'What has changed?'

_You_, John thought. But out loud he answered, 'Life. I'm not getting any younger. I've always tried to find a long-term relationship, someone to build a life with. This TC crap is just that, nonsense. I've never dated just for the sake of dating, or for sex. I mean, the one night stands happened when I was very young and hurting. After a while that got old. Sex is nice, but I want more than that. Yesterday with Gwen was just...' - he searched for an appropriate word – 'another mistake. My heart wasn't in it either. Lately it's been like that. I can't keep a relationship going because my heart is not in it once the initial spark wears off. So I talked to Max and he got the impression that I wanted... Only to rebuff him later. How stupid was that?'

Sherlock kept on climbing the rocky terrain, picking his way around boulders, listening to John behind him. He was relieved to confirm that nothing had happened. The silence stretched for a while.

'Talk to me Sherlock. What are you thinking? Are you disappointed with me?'

'No. Why should I?'

'For going on and on about not being gay, then almost snogging Max?'

Sherlock reflected about it. He had felt broken hearted when he thought they were together. But knowing now that nothing had happened didn't disappoint him in the least, so he shook his head. 'Not disappointed, no. Surprised.'

John seemed relieved. He continued, 'Some people dream of having a family, kids, career. All my life, all I ever wanted, even more so than being a doctor, was to find someone that I loved who loved me back.' _So close, yet so far..._ 'I've never been alone for too long - aside from when I was in Afghanistan - but I feel that I've always been lonely. I've had two long term relationships in the past, before my deployment. Both times I thought we were going to get married, but both relationships fell apart over time.'

'Have you...' Sherlock suddenly recognised the rock he had just reached. It was the one from which he had observed Max and John. He stopped. John continued walking and passed him, so after a pause, he followed.

'Yes?' John prompted.

Sherlock hesitated, seeing John walking towards the same spot.

John too, recognised the next boulder. He felt regret for what had happened with Max yesterday. Unconsciously, he headed to it again. 'Sherlock, talk to me. What were you going to say?' Sherlock still seemed uncertain.

'Just say it. Hell, who am I to get angry at this point?' He stopped and turned, leaning against the same black smooth rock. It had felt good to feel the warm surface against his back yesterday. So he leaned back against it again.

'Have you considered the possibility that your recent relationships failed because they were women?' Sherlock said quickly.

'Of course I have. That's why I talked to Max.' John closed his eyes, to avoid looking into Sherlock's penetrating gaze. This was just too embarrassing. He raised his face to feel the sun's warmth.

'And?' Sherlock's heart drummed fast in his chest. John had stopped in exactly the same position as yesterday. The only difference being that his skin was darker today, and he was wearing shorts, longer than his blue bathers. He had taken his t-shirt off earlier in their walk, and now it hung from his waist again.

'I could be wrong. But I still think I'm not gay. I've never been interested in men.'

'Oh.'

But today, Sherlock was seeing what Max saw. A frontal view, open and frank. With him leaning back, chest and neck exposed, it looked like a silent invitation, an offer. Today, Sherlock was the one whose chest was heaving with passion and desire. He felt what Max must have felt upon this sight yesterday.

John opened his eyes. Surprised, he recognised that look. In a flash of comprehension, he let his fears and walls drop and melt away. He felt free to say what he really wanted to say. Bewildered, Sherlock watched the different emotions that flickered on that face, being a second behind as he recognised each one. Surprise, shock, confusion, recognition, understanding and...

John smiled. 'There is just you. I'm in love with you.'


	17. Epilogue

**A/note:** Ask and you shall receive. Many of you felt this story ended a bit too abruptly and some of you asked for one more chapter, an epilogue, _something_. I had felt it was a good stopping point. To me, we all know how it ends, and to write it was just more-of-the-same-you've-read-thousands-of-times-before. But I'm a softie. So this is for all of you who wanted to see more of this particular tale. I tried my best not to fall into that same-old-same-old. Hope I succeeded, but I'll let you be the judge. There's only so many ways to write about... well. About how it "ends". If I failed, let me know too. I apologise and promise I'll try harder next time.

For those of you who favorited/asked for more, but didn't set up a follow to the story, I'll post this not only as chapter 17, but also by itself. If you stumbled upon this by itself, but haven't read my story called "Man in Uniform", you might want to. It'll be more satisfying this way; you can always go back to it by clicking on my name. If you don't want to, that's fine too. This could almost fit all of my other stories, published or still in my Beta's "desk". So consider this a multi-purpose ending and refer to it if you ever feel disappointed in the future.

My Beta says I should name this "The artistically-unnecessary-but-extremely-satisfying-one-ending-fits-all Epilogue to Man in Uniform". :) But I heard you and I understand. I hope you enjoy it.

And yes, this is Johnlock, mature for content. And disclaimer: still don't own. Otherwise the show would be very different. Or rather, it would resemble Fanfiction. A lot.

B.

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**17\. Epilogue (to "Man in Uniform")**

Sherlock stared, unsure of what he should do or say. Then, out of nowhere, something came to him. Or rather, his transport provided him the answer. He became suddenly aware of and overwhelmed by a strong impulse. He wanted nothing more than to take those three steps that separated them, lean forward, touch his face, kiss him, kiss his neck, kiss his shoulder. _Yes, that seems appropriate_, his brain approved. He was just lifting his foot off the ground when he was hit on the head by something light, that left him impossibly dazed. He heard laughter - children's laughter, and saw the rather large beach ball bouncing lightly past him. A gaggle of loudly laughing kids came from the beach, seeping through in between the boulders like water. There were at least six of them, boys and girls, aged anywhere between seven and ten, laughing, screaming, discussing what they were playing, unaware of what they had just interrupted.

Sherlock looked back at John who, with a contained smile, looked down in resignation: _that will have to wait_. He looked back up, smiling. 'We should head back.'

Sherlock nodded automatically, and followed him.

They kept on walking, slowly making their way back, each to their own thoughts. John had felt how both of them had stood on the edge of a precipice right before the children had interrupted them. He looked at the sea and took a deep breath. _Am I ready for this?_

Now walking on the sand at an unhurried pace, John kept on staring at his own feet. 'This is all very new to me Sherlock. I never-. Well, you know.' he trailed off.

'I know. I have.'

John stopped dead on his track. 'You have?'

'Oh please, John. Don't tell me you believed Mycroft.'

'Huh. I- I guess I did.'

'John, how could _I_ live with not knowing something? _Me!'_

'I guess once you put it that way...'

Sherlock gave a dismissive shrug and resumed walking.

'I just- I don't know. Do you- do you really- what do you feel? For me, I mean.'

Sherlock took a deep breath. He stopped and turned to look at John. 'Nobody has ever been like you, John. I've never wanted anyone like I want you.'

John's stomach dropped and he swallowed. His brow creased and his breathing quickened as he stared into Sherlock's eyes. He felt it once again, as if he were at the very edge of a precipice. As if he were at the edge of a whirlpool at sea, about to fall into the spiralling vortex. Once he took that one step there'd be no turning back. But now, looking into his eyes he knew: ready or not, he couldn't and wouldn't run away anymore. What existed between the two of them was stronger than anything else that came before. Right now the very air around them was so charged he could feel it in his skin.

Sherlock surprised himself with what came out of his mouth. He roamed his eyes around John's face, his eyes bright blue in the sunlight, shiny and intense. He saw the instant John resolved to accept his own feelings. All for him. _For me!_ He felt a surge of emotions so powerful that made him tremble. He turned abruptly and started walking at a fast pace.

'Wait! Sherlock!'

'Keep walking John,' he said without turning his head, speeding up his pace. John hurriedly followed.

'Sherlock, what the hell?' John was nearly jogging to keep up at Sherlock's side.

'John, not here.'

'Wha-'

'Shut up, John. Walk.'

...

As they walked into their hotel room, both were hyper aware of the possibilities, now that their feelings were out in the open. When he felt himself trembling, Sherlock felt fear: fear of losing control and nearly attacking John right there in public, fear of repelling John for being so public, fear for appearing fearful of him, fear of the unknown territory of sentiment, fear from this intense urge to have him. Despite his earlier desperation, now that Sherlock was alone with John he felt the same uncertainty once again. He still wanted, more than anything, to hold him, kiss him, touch him. Yet, to actually do it felt like trying to get through an insurmountable barrier. _How does one proceed? This doesn't feel natural._

John walked in, feeling a bit leery of what _could_ happen. Miffed at first, as they hurried along he understood: Sherlock just couldn't handle his emotions. He saw the trembling, which was surprising coming from someone who was always so under control. But now, alone in the bedroom, he didn't know how to go about it. Sherlock seemed to be going through the same questions. Should they kiss? Should they embrace? Should they just talk? Should they sit together on one of the beds? Should he sit on the chair and keep some distance before they decided on what to do? A bed felt too much like wanting an intimacy, of which he wasn't very sure about just yet. The chair seemed too distant and awkward. So John opted to lean against the chest of drawers and turn to face him. An echo of their earlier positions at the beach.

Sherlock merely stared at him, a hint of apprehension showing on his face. 'Sherlock,' he said quietly, extending both hands with palms up.

Sherlock's breath quickened and he took the steps that separated them. He wasn't sure if he should take John's hands in his, or step in for an embrace. John solved the question by raising his hands to meet the approaching face.

'Kiss me, Sherlock,' he whispered.

Whether it was the words, the touch, the tone of his voice, he didn't know. But he let himself go and all he could do was let a moan of relief escape his lips. And kiss him. Kiss him like he had wanted for so long, kiss him as if his life depended on it (for all he knew, it did), kiss him as if there were no tomorrow. He could die a happy man right now (_Well, not right now_). He felt John's lips, the wetness, the taste, the touch. The strong arms around him, tugging them close with overwhelming passion and tenderness. This was love. And he, Sherlock Holmes, was in love.

Sherlock's moans were nothing like what he had expected or anticipated. And the kiss! Never in a million years he would've guessed Sherlock could express so much passion in a kiss. And to know that he, John Watson, the retired army doctor, the former soldier, the assistant-blogger-helper-minder of Sherlock Holmes, was the one causing this reaction in him was heady and unbelievable.

Sherlock allowed his transport to take charge. He dipped to kiss and nip at John's neck, inhale his personal scent, loosing himself in the physical heaven that was John. He could smell sand, sun cream, sweat, him. His mind travelled back to the image of John in fatigues, _sun, sand, desert, uniform..._ His own breathing was laboured and loud now, he moaned with each and every touch on the beloved tanned skin. He tightened his embrace, he wanted more of him, all of him. He started to mash his body against John's as if this would allow them to become one.

'Sherl-' John tried to say, only to be silenced by a kiss. He tried again and again, trying to push them apart, but the more he did this, the more Sherlock tightened his grip. His neck was bending uncomfortably up and backwards. The chest of drawers was digging painfully on his backside, as he kept getting pushed by the demanding hips rolling into his.

'Sherlock!' He almost yelled, pushing them apart.

Sherlock had a startled look on his face. _Did he not want this?_

John took a deep breath. 'Sorry. A bit too fast for me, Sherlock,' he panted. Seeing the alarm and confusion on his face, John hugged him. It took a few seconds until Sherlock hugged him back with a hunger that John would have never guessed him capable of. So he whispered in his ear, 'I love you, Sherlock. Please be patient with me.'

Sherlock's only response was a mixture of a moan and a whimper. He pulled away and looked into John's eyes. 'Lie with me.'

John swallowed and frowned. He didn't feel ready. Yet, he couldn't ignore the fire that Sherlock's words and tone of voice ignited inside him.

Seeing the struggle so clearly in his face, he added, 'John, I don't mean _that_. Please, just lie with me and kiss me.'

He nodded, so Sherlock backed away slowly. And once more, John followed.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, not touching for now, only looking into each other's eyes, both feeling awkward and self conscious. 'Kiss me again, John. Please.'

John reached for his face and, raising himself slightly, kissed him. Instinctively, Sherlock rolled a bit to receive him, which made John's face follow, hovering above. His hand slid from the face to feel the neck, the shoulder.

Sherlock touched John's side and ran his hand towards his back, his scent so inviting. He had dreamed of this for so long. The back muscles felt harder than he had expected, yet the hand that caressed him now was much more tender and gentler than he had imagined.

John understood now why Sherlock had suggested they lie down. Not only the difference in height was solved, but also, it gave John control over the situation. Sherlock rolling onto his back also gave John the upper hand, so to speak. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was calculated, but he was thankful either way. This made him feel more in control of what could happen or what he wanted to happen. He slowed their kissing down and took his time tasting and exploring those lips. Sherlock's scent, his freshly shaved face, the heat and softness of his skin told him yes, he was ready for this. He loved him. But more than anything, it was the slight tremble he could feel in him, reacting to the kisses and touches that made him sure of it. He moved and lay on top of Sherlock, exploring the mouth and the feel of his body, so solid under him. Muscular, bony, flat chested. Like nothing else he had experienced before. Even the more athletic women he had dated in the past hadn't felt this solid. And the bulge. That would be a bit disturbing if he were to pause and think about it, so he tried not to. _It's Sherlock. It's only Sherlock._

Sherlock enjoyed feeling the weight of John's body on top of his and being allowed to roam his hands, sliding, squeezing, cupping. This compact body of his was indeed a pleasure heaven, a haven, a home. Once again he felt himself tremble, but rather than being alarmed, this time it felt more like being intoxicated. It was a high better than what he ever had with any drugs or cigarettes. He started moving by instinct, seeking friction and pressure. John's hands were now caressing his face and that simple gesture felt so enjoyable, so intimate and tender. These were the same hands that healed and killed, yet, so gentle and loving. John's body responded and he also started moving, leaving Sherlock light headed, unable to control his breathing. It sounded loud to his own ears. John wanted him like _this_, in _this way_.

John broke the kiss, panting, looking into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock groaned with the loss of contact, yet couldn't help but close his eyes; the intensity of his physical sensations and his mental short circuiting overwhelming, overriding his brain. Seeing Sherlock like this, letting go of his usual self control, expressing pleasure at what they were doing, allowing him to do this, was unbelievable. _Amazing yet again, even in this. And I'm the one doing this to him!_ Sherlock's face and neck were red now, his eyes closed, mouth open letting out breathy exhales of pleasure. Right then and there, he realised he didn't care that Sherlock was a man. The sight was so erotic that John was overwhelmed by desire and completely lost it. He closed his eyes and pushed his hips harder into the body under him, frantically, desperately. That was _Sherlock_ under him. _Sherlock_ that he was feeling, hard against him. _Sherlock_, who was showing equal desire for him. _Sherlock's_ hands on him. Suddenly, it all became too much and he felt himself bursting with love, joy, pride.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the increased intensity in John's moves. _He_ was doing this to John. For him, John was making an exception. For him, John allowed himself to be aroused by a man. John didn't desire the handsome Max, he desired _him_, the sociopath, the freak. Fascinated, he watched and marvelled at the sight of John arching his back, closing his eyes as if in pain, exposing his throat to him. Beetroot red all over, goose pimples visible on his neck, mouth open, his head shaking from side to side at each spasm. He felt the waves of pleasure that coursed through John's body and showed on his face. He felt infinitely proud that he had done this to John. _He must've been really aroused to have finished so quickly like this._ John's spasms pressed him painfully, but he didn't care. He was enjoying being pinned and letting John "have his way with him", he thought, slightly ashamed. This had surpassed his wildest fantasies.

To John, this time it felt never ending, as if it were lasting longer than usual. With a final shudder he collapsed on top of Sherlock, panting, sweaty, light headed. Never in his life it had been this intense, and they hadn't even touched each other's skin yet. They still had their clothes on.

To Sherlock, even though he was proud to have excited John so strongly, he couldn't help but to feel a little disappointed. He did understand that the ending turned out to be a long and intense experience for John and was immensely happy to have been the cause of it. John's sweat, the strong and accelerated heartbeat against his own chest the joyful proof that this had really happened. Yet, it was over now and he craved more.

They lay in bed for a while, John trying to catch his breath, coming down from his high. Sherlock, cooling down in his disappointment and trying to decide wether or not it was appropriate to embrace him.

Then, to his surprise, he felt sensual kisses on his neck again and a hand caressing it. John's mouth was hugely distracting, but slowly he became aware of the meandering hand that lazily caressed his shoulder, squeezing it. The hand never stopped; it traveled slowly, exploring, his mere touch more intense than anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. Goose pimples sprung throughout his body, following the wake of his touch. Over the shirt, a finger swept over his nipple, making Sherlock gasp. He felt a smile against his neck and once more he felt dizzy and overwhelmed. John shifted his hips out of the way, one leg still over the thigh, between his legs. The innocent gesture more possessive and arousing than Sherlock would've ever guessed. With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock's hips bucked up against the firm hand that pressed against him and he let out a breathy 'Oh', more of an exhale rather than sound. That sexy whisper broke any reservations John might still have held. He undid the fly.

Usually, the biggest turn on for John was to give pleasure, to see his partners enjoying themselves. That's why he had always been praised as being good in bed. It was no different with Sherlock. In fact, it was even more intense, now that it was someone he loved. Someone that, as a general rule, avoided relationships and physical contact. The enormity of what was happening hit him and made him ache. He had imagined that touching another man would feel strange, unappealing even. But now he was surprised by how natural it felt. More than anything, it was watching Sherlock's face that made it so appealing.

That first touch was so intensely pleasurable that Sherlock felt faint. All the blood in his body seemed to have shifted in a shockwave. Sensing something wrong, John hesitated. 'Sherlock?'

After a few heartbeats, a most erotic breathy groan rasped in Sherlock's throat.

Taking this as a positive sign, John relaxed and started moving his hand, watching Sherlock's face in awe. He watched the responses and adjusted as needed. All too soon Sherlock became frantic. Suddenly he bucked his hips off the bed and his head was thrown so far back that all John could see was his chin and neck. He spasmed violently, biting his shouts down between clenched teeth, head coming up and slamming back down on the bed several times. Chest, neck and face going a deeper red.

_Not so different after all. Beautiful._

John was embarrassed for having finished so fast. He had been so aroused they hadn't even had time to undress. But then, Sherlock had been nearly as quick. Still half sprawled on top of Sherlock, he interlaced the fingers of their free hands and stayed like this for... a few minutes? Ten minutes? He lost track.

_No matter. We'll have plenty of time now._

J+S


End file.
